


Tell New Weather

by evadne



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Multiple, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Roman Empire, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evadne/pseuds/evadne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Moriarty travels through time, space, and multiple universes searching for a place to practise crime in peace, untroubled by Sherlock Holmes. Given the theoretically infinite number of possibilities, it seems strange - not to mention infuriating - that a universe without Holmes appears to be impossible to find. The answer to Moriarty's problem lies in the 21st century with a man who shares his name, but their eventual meeting is really just the beginning of his troubles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MORIARTY - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a kinkmeme prompt, the original of which I cannot find, but which asked for a fic in which: 'Victorian 'verse Moriarty invents a time machine to go wreak havoc in a time where Holmes and Watson don't exist. But he discovers that they always exist, past and future, and are always together, in all kinds of forms - two guys, two girls, two mice, a girl and a guy, all different ethnicities and races, etc.' As the prompt suggests, this is essentially a collection of AUs, though there's a (hopefully) coherent plot running through all of them, which is essentially a much-distorted version of the second series of 'Sherlock', with significantly more time travel.
> 
> The title is from the poem 'Wind and Tree' by Paul Muldoon:
> 
> In the way that most of the wind  
> Happens where there are trees,
> 
> Most of the world is centred  
> About ourselves.
> 
> Often where the wind has gathered  
> The trees together and together,
> 
> One tree will take  
> Another in her arms and hold.
> 
> Their branches that are grinding  
> Madly together and together,
> 
> It is no real fire.  
> They are breaking each other.
> 
> Often I think I should be like  
> The single tree, going nowhere,
> 
> Since my own arm cannot and will not  
> Break the other. Yet by my broken bones
> 
> I tell new weather.
> 
> *
> 
> AUs in this chapter: genderswapped Victorian femslash 'verse  
> Warnings for this chapter: kissing and undressing, but no actual sex, some implied Victorian homophobia, and slight possessive!Holmes.
> 
> The Cavendish Club is borrowed from 'Tipping the Velvet' by Sarah Waters.

‘Are you sure about this, James?’  
  
  
Peculiar, how somebody so easy to read could be so endlessly fascinating. Moriarty had known that Moran would ask that question, would word it in exactly that way, would finish it with Moriarty’s Christian name, spoken at a slightly lower pitch, almost a plea.  
  
  
And yet the words made him smile, made him place a reassuring hand on Moran’s shoulder. ‘Is it the appearance of the thing that puts you off?’  
  
  
‘Partly.’ Moran flicked his eyes over the machine. ‘It’s hardly attractive.’  
  
  
And no, it wasn’t – all iron and steam and rust, old-looking even though Moriarty had in fact only put the last piece of it in place half an hour ago.  
  
  
‘I should hope you trust me to know what I’m doing by now,’ Moriarty said, rubbing Moran’s shoulder. ‘The fact that it doesn’t look, I admit, altogether encouraging shouldn’t lead you to conclude that it isn’t seaworthy. Or, well – timeworthy.’  
  
  
‘I know. And I do trust you, of course. But this is new science. Untried, untested, and potentially incredibly dangerous. If you didn’t come back –‘  
  
  
‘I will come back. I came back from Switzerland, didn’t I?’  
  
  
Moran sighed, and leaned back. ‘You realise I’m going too.’  
  
  
‘I had anticipated that you might say that. And you’re certainly not.’  
  
  
‘Yes, I am. In fact, I’m going first.’  
  
  
Not so predictable after all. Moriarty frowned. Moran put up a hand to stop him speaking. ‘It makes sense. I’ll go ahead and gather the information you need to get by in the places you travel to. You’re going to be showing up in new and utterly unfamiliar worlds, times and places completely outside your conception. If I go first I can scout out the area, see how it works, and leave the information for you when you arrive. I’d suggest I go entirely alone and you remain here, but I certainly wouldn’t be capable of carrying out the plans you have in mind by myself. So I’ll go first, and you’ll follow. I check for traps in bank vaults before you enter, and I did my level best to kill Sherlock Holmes before you returned from hiding. This isn’t any different.’  
  
  
‘No,’ Moriarty said flatly.  
  
  
‘I thought you’d say that.’ And suddenly Moriarty was being pinned against the wall, Moran knotting ropes Moriarty had seen no sign of a moment ago tightly around his hands. He kicked out, but Moran ignored the assault. ‘You may be the genius, but we both know that I’m physically stronger than you are, and years younger. You may as well let me finish what I’m doing.’  
  
  
‘This is absurd,’ Moriarty snapped, twisting in a complicated manoeuvre he was confident Moran wouldn’t anticipate. Except that he _did_ , slamming him back into the wall without so much as flinching, and finishing his last knot with a flourish.  
  
  
Moriarty strained at the ropes, but Moran’s knots, as he knew only too well, were expert. They’d come in useful enough times in Moriarty’s plans before.  
  
  
‘Good thing you showed me how to use the machine, isn’t it?’ Moran grinned. He threw open the door and stepped inside. A moment later the steam and smoke shooting from it was choking Moriarty and he was forced to cover his face; when he lifted his hand the machine – and Moran – were gone.  
  
  
Moran had planned this. Hidden ropes within easy reach, considered how Moriarty was likely to respond - if it weren't such a shocking show of disobedience, Moriarty would be impressed.  
  
  
Perhaps he actually was, just a little.  
  
  
And then the machine was back again, steam billowing into the room from absolutely nowhere, a horrific grinding noise which certainly hadn’t been present the first time filling the air, and Moran was stumbling forwards into the room. He looked slightly older, Moriarty realised with a shock, and had acquired several new scars.  
  
  
He walked, slightly unsteady on his feet, over to where Moriarty was tied up and began to untie him. When Moriarty was free, he looked Moran up and down. ‘I might have you killed for that.’  
  
  
‘God, I missed you.’  
  
  
Moriarty let Moran fold into him, wrapping his arms round his chest. ‘How long have you been gone?’  
  
  
‘Too long. And I suppose you’ll be off yourself, now.’  
  
  
Moriarty nodded, and Moran disentangled them with evident reluctance. ‘I’ve left coordinates for you in the machine,’ he said. ‘Follow them and – well, whatever you think – I really don’t know what you will think. We can discuss it when you return. Just make sure you do return, all right?’  
  
  
Moriarty considered asking what Moran meant, and pointing out that the idea of his following coordinates – instructions! – was absurd, but there was something in Moran’s expression that made him hesitate.  
  
  
Stepping inside the machine and sitting down, he glanced at the piece of paper by the control panel and thought that it couldn’t hurt to at least _look_ at one of the places Moran had suggested.  
  
  
He used the levers on the control panel to enter the first set of coordinates, and was relieved to discover that the smoke and steam didn’t get inside the machine. He could see it outside though, filling the room and making it rapidly invisible. Which was lucky, because if the swooping, spinning sensation in his gut had been added to by the possibility of seeing the room swirling round him as well he might very well have been sick, which wouldn’t have been at all pleasant in the cramped space.  
  
  
The whooshing and spinning stopped with a judder and, after taking a moment to steady himself, Moriarty opened the machine’s door.  
  
  
It was London, that he was sure of straight away, although he would have found it difficult to say for certain how he knew. But London was his; he knew it in his bones, and anyway it looked much the same as ever. Moran’s coordinates had landed him in a back alley and one, he realised, which was sealed off at the end by building work. Getting out would require some undignified scrambling, but the machine should be safe.  
  
  
So far, so good. The more similar this world to his own, the more easily he would be able to manipulate it in the way that he wished. Ideally a world identical in every respect save for the absence of Sherlock Holmes would be the one in which he found himself, and if Moran had managed to locate such a place Moriarty might even forgive him for his appalling show of insubordination.  
  
  
On the wall in front of him were a couple of sentences painted with rather more care than those who vandalised public buildings (a crime that Moriarty saw little point in) usually took. His ‘instructions’. Surely Moran did not believe that they were going to be followed? Moriarty was his employer, not the other way about.  
  
  
Still. Best to read them, even if he proceeded to ignore them.  
  
  
‘Check 118 Milvern Avenue. Resist temptation to underestimate. Good luck.’  
  
  
The words meant little to him, although he did know where Milvern Avenue was. After managing to make his way out of the alley, Moriarty hailed a cab and then paused. Perhaps he should have a look at Milvern Avenue, just briefly. Moran, while in many ways of entirely average intelligence, did have a way of spotting potential hitches in Moriarty’s plans, and chances were that if he’d directed his employer’s attention to something it was important enough to justify it.  
  
  
‘118 Milvern Avenue, please.’  
  
  
There was, fortunately, a side street immediately beside 118, and Moriarty was able to walk down it, remaining out of view of the main road while surveying the house. Semi-detached; ‘middle-class’, to use the fashionable term - pleasant enough, he supposed.  
  
  
The obvious disadvantage of travelling to unfamiliar times and places in this way was, of course, that Moriarty no longer had his usual network to rely on. Not that he had much of it in his own time any more; Holmes had seen to that. Still, there was usually somebody he could call on. Here, his network might or might not exist and if it did he had no idea how to get access to it. If he himself did not exist in this reality or if he looked or sounded different then the people he attempted to approach might not even recognise him.  
  
  
If he wanted to find out about the occupants of the house, he was going to have to do it himself. The idea was not one he took to. He had always been five or six times removed from the crimes he orchestrated, never near enough for them to be traced to him, except by Holmes, who couldn’t prove a thing, who had eventually resorted to grappling him off a cliff. Carrying out his plans here would be rather more complicated, although he was confident in his ability to build up a network in this London eventually. But it had taken him years to cultivate the first one, and he didn’t want to remain here years if he could help it.  
  
  
There was nothing for it, he decided. He was going to have to abandon his usual subtlety and tackle the problem head on.  
  
  
Moments later, he was crouching on the flat back lower roof of 118, peering through the window and feeling a little ridiculous. If Moran had led him to this without good reason –  
  
  
He started as a movement caught his eye, and he withdrew from the window, positioning himself so that he could see inside but the room’s new occupant would not be able to see him unless she came right up to the window.  
  
  
The window was open a crack and he could hear the woman call to someone in the hallway, ‘Oh, stop fussing. It always gets like this in the winter.’  
  
  
As she got closer to the window Moriarty could see, despite her long dress, that she walked with a limp and wore a long-suffering expression.  
  
  
Another woman – the first’s mother, Moriarty deduced immediately – now stepped into the room. ‘You ought to go to the doctor, Joan, I’m sure there’s something that can be done for it.’  
  
  
The first woman, Joan, sat down in an armchair in the corner, stretched out her legs and began rubbing the injured one through her dress. ‘I know about a hundred doctors, mother, and a reasonable amount about medicine myself, if you recall. And no, there isn’t. It’ll ease up as soon as the weather gets warmer. As I said, please stop fussing.’  
  
  
Her mother sighed; then there was a pause. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,’ Joan said. Her mother looked up. ‘I’ve been thinking, and…I think I might be better off living elsewhere.’  
  
  
Her mother stared at her. ‘Such as?’ she said, finally. ‘Unless there’s a marriage proposal I don’t know about, which frankly seems rather unlikely –‘ And her tone made Moriarty wonder very much; there was something harsher in it than he would have expected from the conversation. Certainly it was common enough for mothers to be frustrated at their daughters’ unmarried status, but the way her voice twisted up seemed beyond the usual.  
  
  
‘No, there isn’t,’ Joan interrupted. ‘But a friend of mine introduced me to a woman who’s looking to share some rooms in Baker Street. Since we’re both employed we could easily afford the rent. I think it would be good for me to have some space while I’m recovering.’  
  
  
‘A woman,’ her mother repeated. ‘You cannot expect me to accept –‘  
  
  
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Interrupting again, and now she sounded furious. ‘It isn’t like that, I don’t even _know_ her, she’s not – look, I made a mistake, _once_ , and I don’t know why you can’t forget about it. It isn’t going to happen again and it certainly isn’t going to happen with Sherlock Holmes.’  
  
  
Moriarty froze.  
  
  
‘What kind of a name is that? And whether or not anything happens – and I don’t know why you expect me to trust you after what you did before – people will talk. Your reputation could be irrevocably damaged.’  
  
  
‘People will only talk if you start them off,’ Joan said impatiently, Moriarty trying to listen while processing the possibilities in his mind. She’d said a woman, he was sure of it, and then she’d said Sherlock Holmes. ‘No one will even think of it otherwise, I assure you. And yes, it’s a peculiar name, but I don’t really see why it matters. I do intend to take the rooms and I’d like to do it with your approval. Think about it.’  
  
  
And she was marching out of the room, determinedly ignoring her dragging leg, while her mother frowned after her.  
  
  
Moriarty clambered off the roof and back into the side street, then leaned against the wall to think things over.  
  
  
He hadn’t succeeded in finding a universe in which Holmes didn’t exist, but apparently had found one in which Holmes was a woman. Which ought to be nearly as good; Holmes certainly wouldn’t have access to the same resources and probably wasn’t even a detective. Even so, Moran had written ‘Resist temptation to underestimate’ and Moriarty had the distinct impression that he had been writing due to direct experience.  
  
  
He’d visit Baker Street first, he decided, and have a look at this version of Holmes. Then he’d make his mind up about what to do next. He was, however, concerned about what precisely he’d do when he reached Baker Street – assuming 221 was in the same position and had the same layout as in his own world watching and listening at a window would not be an option.  
  
  
Luck was with him, however, as when the hansom drew up outside the building Holmes was standing outside it.  
  
  
He knew it was Holmes at a glance; it had to be. Other than being female – a fairly significant change, Moriarty admitted – the woman looked exactly like him. Dark and tall and full of odd, sharp angles.  
  
  
Moriarty got out of the cab and walked past Holmes, who was standing outside 221 surveying it thoughtfully. Probably just about to move in.  
  
  
Unfortunately any closer surveillance was impossible; if Holmes was anything like her counterpart she would certainly notice a stranger watching her. And if it turned out that Moriarty had a counterpart here himself and wasn’t a stranger to Holmes at all, that would of course be even worse.  
  
  
So, unwillingly, Moriarty left Baker Street and went to a hotel nearby to consider his next move.  
  
  
His plans had of necessity been rather vague; he’d had no idea what sort of place he was likely to end up in. However, since as it turned out the world he’d come to was conveniently similar to his own a number of options presented themselves. Whatever he did, it had to be criminal – carrying out crimes without irritating interruptions was the point of the entire exercise – and it had to produce solid financial results: he needed to reinvigorate his finances which had been rather depleted by the project that had got him here, and in any case Moriarty firmly believed that money was a necessary thing to have. It couldn’t get one everywhere, but it did open plenty of doors that would otherwise have been inconveniently locked. Moriarty could pick metaphorical locks as easily as physical ones, but it was preferable not to have to.  
  
  
And it had, of course, to be challenging and complicated and not even slightly dull.  
  
  
A newspaper he’d picked up on the way to the hotel had helpfully informed him that the year was 1890. Which meant that Holmes’s double was arriving at the rooms in Baker Street several years later in this universe than had happened in Moriarty’s own. Fascinating, the differences; it might be worth noting them down for further study.  
  
  
More importantly, Moriarty was now considering a possibility he had only briefly considered until now. 1890 had been a good year for crime – or rather a good year for attempted crime, since while plenty of potentially good ideas had been tried many of them had been unsuccessful.  
  
  
The one foremost in his mind was the matter of the attempt to rob the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban bank. The man responsible for the attempt – John Clay – was one Moriarty had admired for a long time for his originality of thought, and if he’d had the sense to bring in a more developed mind than his own to oversee the business it would certainly have come off. As it was, Holmes had foiled the attempt and John Clay had gone to prison.  
  
  
But here – here it hadn’t happened yet. Moriarty had – unpardonably – been entirely unaware that the attempt was being planned and had known nothing about it until it was too late, but now he was back in a not-so-different version of 1890, armed with foreknowledge and Holmes’s unexpected new disadvantages.  
  
  
Yes, he decided. He would find John Clay and persuade him to allow Moriarty to oversee his plan to obtain French gold. It would put Moriarty far closer to the crime than he liked to be, but that couldn’t be helped, and anyway, he now had the option of escaping in the machine if necessary, and, if he did have a double here, perhaps he could arrange for the blame to fall on him. Or perhaps her.  
  
  
It was late by now, and Moriarty always kept as regular sleeping hours as possible when planning or orchestrating crimes; it was important for the smooth running of his brain. So he got into the surprisingly comfortable hotel bed and slept.  
  
  
He wasn’t, however, to achieve the nine hours of sleep he’d intended on having, as he was rudely awakened in the middle of the night by the ground floor of the hotel exploding.  
  
  
The first he knew of it was when his eyes snapped open to the sight of his room rapidly disappearing as his bed crashed down through the collapsing floor. As it landed on the floor below, Moriarty sat up, slightly shaken but unharmed, and took in the sight in front of him. The hotel lobby had been completely wrecked; the furniture was in fragments and the walls, while still intact, were charred, and the ceiling was falling to bits, though Moriarty seemed to have been the only guest unlucky enough to actually fall through.  
  
  
Moriarty swung himself out of bed, deeply relieved at his decision that bringing much luggage would weigh him down having resulted in his sleeping fully dressed; it would have been rather embarrassing to have been in nightclothes at this point.  
  
  
Since a large percentage of the room was actually on fire, Moriarty decided he probably ought to leave.  
  
  
He paused outside to consider the matter. It hadn’t been accidental, however it had happened. If it had taken place in the kitchen that might have been a possibility, but he could think of no reason for the lobby to burst into flames and pieces. So somebody had deliberately attacked the hotel.  
  
  
It might have nothing to do with Moriarty’s presence there, but from what he had seen of the other guests he was reasonably certain that none of them were likely to suffer from assassination attempts, and in any case it seemed an unlikely coincidence. And the worst of the explosion had clearly taken place directly under his own room, which was suspicious.  
  
  
So someone was trying to kill him. What he didn’t know was whether it was really him they were after or if he had perhaps been mistaken for a version of himself that existed in this world; the latter seemed more likely, as he couldn’t imagine how anyone would have discovered he himself was here.  
  
  
And whoever it was, they had failed, had not even come very close to succeeding. Moriarty had left the hotel without a scratch, and so this person was unlikely to be a worthy adversary.  
  
  
As he crossed the road he noticed suddenly that someone had written on the wall opposite the hotel in chalk. He was absolutely certain the words hadn’t been there yesterday.  
  
  
‘It wasn’t a failure, James. I wasn’t trying to kill you – this time – just getting your attention. Be seeing you.’  
  
  
It was extremely rare for Moriarty to be taken entirely by surprise, but he found himself standing still and staring at the message for a full minute before he pulled himself together and left.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Joan Watson had been living with Sherlock Holmes for a month by the time she actually found out what the woman’s profession was.  
  
  
Joan would have doubted that she had one at all if she hadn’t said as much when they first met, and if she hadn’t paid her portion of the rent unfailingly and without any apparent difficulty. She was often at home for days on end, doing little but lie on the sofa complaining and, once, to Joan’s surprised disapproval, injecting cocaine. And then a visitor – and the nature of the visitors varied dramatically; no two were alike in age or dress – would arrive, and Joan would politely excuse herself and leave them to their conversation, and not long afterwards Sherlock would whirl out of the house in a flurry of excitement without giving any indication as to where she was going or how long she would be gone.  
  
  
Joan’s mother had come to visit exactly once, and Joan was immensely grateful for the fact that Sherlock had been out at the time; she had no idea what her mother would make of Sherlock Holmes but was happy to put off finding out for as long as possible.  
  
  
It hadn’t been a comfortable visit; they had fought – again – the same fight as before; it was getting very boring. Joan would accuse her mother of absurd paranoia, because what had happened had happened once and never would again.  
  
  
Which was a shocking lie, of course, but she couldn’t see any way of avoiding telling it.  
  
  
For the rest of the time, she went to the hospital and busied herself changing dressings and writing notes for doctors. She suspected that with proper training, training that went beyond reading every medical textbook she could get her hands on, she could have done their jobs better than at least half of them, and she doubted that one of them could have lasted ten minutes in Afghanistan, but she was rarely bitter. She enjoyed nursing, and it was more challenging than some people seemed to think. And, most importantly, she was paid for it, and that meant she didn’t have to live with her mother, and that was worth an awful lot of condescending doctors and angry patients.  
  
  
And then came the day that Joan rather embarrassingly criticised an article without realising that she was speaking to its author, and Sherlock, rather than getting angry, had simply smiled and told Joan quite how wrong she was in her review of the claims made in the article.  
  
  
‘I have a turn both for observation and deduction,’ she said calmly. ‘The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so absurd are really extremely practical -- so practical that I depend upon them for my living.’  
  
  
Joan had to ask how – she had wanted to know for weeks now, and something in Sherlock’s coolly detached manner had made her hesitate to inquire before, but this was too much.  
  
  
‘Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of government detectives and lots of private ones. When they are in difficulties they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight. Sometimes the family resemblance between crimes isn't quite enough for me to determine what must have happened, or I suspect that the detectives have missed something crucial, and then I'm obliged to go and examine the evidence for myself.’  
  
  
‘The police come to you for help.’ She couldn’t help but be sceptical, although clearly Sherlock must do _something_ and this was less unlikely than some of the possibilities Joan had dreamt up. ‘Men employed by the government come to a woman sponsored by no one, admit that they have no idea what to do, and ask you to get them out of their predicament.’  
  
  
Sherlock smiled. ‘I didn’t say they liked doing it. But they do do it, although only when they have no other choice. Which happens more often than you might think.’  
  
  
If Joan didn’t really believe any of this, she could hardly be blamed. Her scepticism, however, was not allowed to last more than another day or two.  
  
  
Coming home from the hospital two days or so after the conversation, Joan found Sherlock deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. She apologised for intruding and was about to withdraw to her own room as she always did when one of Sherlock’s clients was present when Sherlock grabbed her arm, pulled her into the room and closed the door behind her.  
  
  
Joan blinked at her.  
  
  
‘You could not possibly have arrived at a better time,’ she said.  
  
  
‘I was afraid that you were engaged.’  
  
  
‘So I am. Very much so.’  
  
  
‘Then I can wait in the next room.’  
  
  
‘Not at all. Sit down. Mr. Wilson, you don’t object to my friend hearing your story? I think she may be of some use in helping with your case.’  
  
  
The red-haired man shook his head slowly, his eyes lingering with a slightly bewildered expression on Joan, who took a seat, every bit as confused herself.  
  
  
‘If you wouldn’t mind starting your narrative again from the beginning, Mr. Wilson?’  
  
  
Mr. Wilson’s story turned out to feature a society set up to provide for red-headed men, and was so bizarre from beginning to end that when he finished it Joan couldn’t help but burst out laughing.  
  
  
Sherlock shot her an astonished look and then her face cracked suddenly into a smile and then she was laughing too. They giggled helplessly for a second and then, catching sight of Mr. Wilson’s disapproving face, Joan hurriedly stopped herself.  
  
  
'I cannot see that there is anything very funny,' he said, flushing. 'If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.'  
  
  
‘No, no,’ Sherlock said at once, and rather to Joan’s astonishment she leaned forward and actually shoved the man back into the chair from which he had half risen. ‘I wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.’  
  
  
She asked him several more questions – many of them concerning Mr. Wilson’s assistant, which puzzled Joan slightly – and then dismissed Mr. Wilson, telling him that she hoped to have come to a conclusion on his case by Monday. Then she turned to Joan. ‘What do you make of it?’ she asked.  
  
  
‘I make nothing of it,’ Joan admitted. ‘It seems entirely mysterious to me. And I don’t understand why you wanted me to hear the story – not that I don’t appreciate it; it was certainly more interesting than listening to the complaints of hypochondriacs as I have been all day, but I really do not see that I can be of any use to you.’  
  
  
Sherlock shrugged. ‘Well, maybe not, but if you wanted to come to Saxe-Coburg square with me I’d much appreciate it.’  
  
  
‘What, now?’  
  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
  
Joan hesitated; it had been a long day at the hospital and she had intended to retire to bed with a book very early, but the story had intrigued her, and the idea of seeing Sherlock at work after having been kept in the dark about her profession for so long was appealing.  
  
  
‘All right.’  
  
  
Sherlock’s activities outside Wilson’s shop were bewildering to say the least. She had brought a stick with her, and she thumped it against the pavement several times. She frowned as she did so, shaking her head slightly. She then knocked on the door and asked Wilson’s assistant the way to the Strand, while staring at his knees, of all things, and frowning.  
  
  
‘You came here to see him, presumably,’ Joan commented as they walked away.  
  
  
‘The knees of his trousers, specifically.’  
  
  
‘And what did you see?’  
  
  
Sherlock’s brow creased. ‘Not what I expected to see,’ she muttered.  
  
  
Round the corner from the square, Sherlock seemed to find something more in line with her expectations, or at least she made a half-pleased, half-puzzled sound and then announced that they had done their work and inquired as to whether Joan would like to accompany her to hear Sarasate play the violin at St. James’s Hall.  
  
  
Joan had never previously been to the theatre or a concert without at least one middle-aged relative chaperoning her, but that in itself could not explain the peculiar thrill that ran through her at the prospect. She had nursed in Afghanistan, miles from home, and now she was living alone with only another unmarried woman for company; the level of independence that came from hearing a violinist without her mother present was rather insignificant in comparison.  
  
  
Joan had heard Sherlock play the violin a handful of times since they had begun sharing lodgings and had seen the effect that doing so had on her, and she found herself wanting badly to see what reaction Sherlock had when she was listening to music rather than producing it herself, and therefore missing the level of conscious concentration that would prevent her from being entirely swept up in it.  
  
  
She froze in the middle of the street, cursing herself, and Sherlock regarded her with surprise. ‘Are you all right?’  
  
  
‘Yes, yes – I – on second thoughts, Sherlock, I completely forgot; I’m so sorry, but I have an appointment tonight.’  
  
  
‘Pity.’ Sherlock was gazing at her with her cool, clear grey eyes; Joan had to work to prevent her shiver from becoming visible. ‘Next time, perhaps?’  
  
  
‘Yes, of course, and I really am sorry –‘  
  
  
‘Not at all, don’t worry; I can enjoy it as much without company as with it. I hope your appointment goes well.’  
  
  
‘Thank you.’  
  
  
Joan bade Sherlock goodbye and left, keenly aware of her eyes on Joan’s back as she walked away, and was only grateful that Sherlock could not see her twisted, frustrated expression.  
  
  
She had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t go back. And she had meant it at the time; she had really believed that the part of her that had driven her there could be suppressed. But apparently she had overestimated her own self-control, and if it had to be someone it had better not be a woman whom she had to live with, and one who was strange and cold and impossible to understand at that. A trip to Sackville Street, however much she might hate herself for it the next morning, was better than falling in love with Sherlock Holmes over introspective German concertos; of that she was certain.  
  
  
*  
  
  
The Cavendish Club looked, from the outside, as unassuming as Joan had remembered it. She froze for a moment, then sighed, and entered.  
  
  
‘Miss Watson!’ the woman Joan remembered as Miss Hawkins said, as soon as she stepped through the door. She was seated at a desk in the corner, examining a ledger of some kind. ‘Goodness, it’s been a long time. I’m sure everyone will be delighted to see you.’  
  
  
Joan smiled, gave an absent-minded polite reply, and moved through into the main atrium.  
  
  
She was deeply relieved, at her first glance round, to see only two or three women whom she recognised. She had expected this to be the case, as most women did not stay as members of the club for long; they left to get married, or out of shame, or because they were in danger of being found out.  
  
  
There was Diana Lethaby in the far corner, who had always been far too grand to talk to women of Joan’s standing, a nervous looking girl in trousers hovering at her shoulder. No danger of her coming over to extend greetings or quiz her about where she had been. And Cassandra Waters, who ought to have been just as scornful but had instead been all too interested, seeking to put Joan in much the same position as the beautifully dressed but shivering young woman behind Diana. She might come over, but Joan doubted it. When women like that had courted her, she had been a golden-haired, rosy-cheeked girl with an easy laugh and a set of romanticised ideas about healing the sick. She did not expect many people to want her now that she was five years older in fact and a thousand in experience and temperament, now that she knew that healing the sick, while as worthy an activity as she had always believed, was not romantic in the slightest but filthy, exhausting and often hopeless. Now that she walked with a limp and had crossed a battlefield to drag back an injured soldier who had died anyway.  
  
  
Which only left –  
  
  
‘ _Joan?_ ’  
  
  
She had known Violet Hunter would be here; of course she had. Unlike Joan, Violet had never been ashamed, she was far too straightforwardly practical for that. As a professional governess with the ability to support herself, she had no need to get married. She had no reason to leave. But it was still somehow a shock to be face to face with her, exactly the same as ever, from her freckles to her darting, sharp eyes, to her beautiful chestnut hair.  
  
  
‘Yes,’ Joan said, barely daring to meet her gaze. ‘Yes, it’s me.’  
  
  
Violet leaned forward to embrace her, and Joan returned it awkwardly, before stepping back again and wondering what on earth to say.  
  
  
‘It’s good to see you again,’ Violet said. Joan waited for her to add: where on earth have you been? What have you been doing? How could you possibly say that you were going for a stroll around the gardens and then disappear for _five years_?  
  
  
But she did not. She said only, ‘I suppose you must be fully employed by now?’  
  
  
‘Yes, that’s right. I was even in Afghanistan.’  
  
  
Violet’s eyes went to her leg. ‘Is that where -?’  
  
  
‘Yes. But I only limp in the winter, you know, it doesn’t trouble me at all most of the time. Are you still working for the Colonel?’  
  
  
Violet shook her head. ‘No, he’s gone to America with his family. I’m actually out of work at the moment, and in a bit of a fix, to tell you the truth. But I’m sure I’ll get an offer soon enough.’  
  
  
It was infinitely surreal to stand talking to a woman who Joan had spent the best part of a year practically living with, exchanging pleasantries. They had never been in love, but they had liked each other very much. Violet was sensible and straightforward and, though somewhat hardboiled, very kind. Joan could remember the precise texture of Violet’s hair running through her hands, the feel of her slightly chapped lips pressing against Joan’s ear, and here she was, five years on, with nothing to say to her at all.  
  
  
There was one thing, of course, that she absolutely had to say, and she had better say it now before she lost her nerve. ‘I’m sorry.’  
  
  
Violet rested a hand on Joan’s shoulder and said, very gently, ‘I know. It’s all right.’  
  
  
‘My mother saw us,’ Joan said abruptly. ‘She saw us together, and I fought with her, and then I stormed out and came here and pretended that nothing had happened, and then I – I just couldn’t –‘ She stopped, tried to start again, but could only repeat, ‘I’m so sorry.’  
  
  
‘I told you, it’s all right. I understand. But I’m glad you’ve come back. It doesn’t do any good, running away. But I expect you’ve realised that by now.’  
  
  
Joan smiled then, even if it was a fairly fragile attempt. ‘Yes. I think I’m beginning to. Do you – do you have someone, now?’  
  
  
Violet smiled back. ‘I do, yes. She doesn’t come here; she doesn’t like it much, but I’ll introduce you sometime. We could meet for lunch, if you like.’  
  
  
‘That would be lovely.’  
  
  
‘Wonderful. I’ll tell her. In the meantime, I have to be going, but – take care, won’t you?’  
  
  
‘I will. Good to see you again.’  
  
  
Then Violet was gone, and Joan let out a breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding.  
  
  
The idea of bringing a stranger back to Baker Street under Sherlock’s eye, introducing her as an old school friend and insisting that they sat in Joan’s room to reminisce rather than the living room so as not to disturb Sherlock was seeming less and less appealing, but the idea of going back alone was even worse, so she began scanning the room again for possibilities.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Joan was immensely relieved, on entering the flat, to discover that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. There was a note on the table in the living room explaining that she’d gone out on case-related business and didn’t know when she’d be back.  
  
  
‘Come on in,’ Joan called back. ‘The woman I room with is out, so we have the place to ourselves.’  
  
  
The girl emerged from the top of the stairs and stepped into the living room, looking around her appraisingly. ‘Nice rooms,’ she said.  
  
  
Her name was Alice. She was tall, blonde and attractive, and tonight had been her first time at the club. Her self-confident air had slipped up once or twice after a few brandies to reveal her nervousness.  
  
  
Joan poured them each another and then decided it was best that they retire to her room immediately; Sherlock could return at any moment. They went in, bringing their glasses and the nearly-full bottle with them, and perched on Joan’s bed, sipping their drinks and making conversation. It was absurd, really. They both knew why they were here, but they were too well-brought-up to dream of being impolite.  
  
  
A few drinks later, however, the world beginning to go pleasantly soft round the edges, and Joan felt that there had been quite enough etiquette for one evening. She set down her glass, and a moment later her fingers were unlacing Alice’s corset, flicking the thick ribbons away with practised hands. There was a sash over it, which in Joan’s slightly inebriated state she hadn’t noticed, so she untied that next, and finally the whole lot came away from the girl’s body and landed on the bed.  
  
Joan reached out for the folds of Alice’s dress, and then stopped abruptly when she heard a knock on the door.  
  
  
‘I – hold on a moment!’ Joan called out, panicked, hoping she sounded normal. She wondered for a frantic second if she could hide Alice in a cupboard or something, but there was nowhere in the room that a person could fit.  
  
  
‘Are you all right?’ said Sherlock’s voice from outside, and Joan cursed.  
  
  
‘Yes – I’ll be out in a moment!’  
  
  
She pushed Alice out of sight of the door and opened it to find Sherlock standing outside.  
  
  
‘Good evening.’ Sherlock smiled at her. ‘I hope your engagement, whatever it was, went well.’  
  
  
‘Oh - yes. Thank you. How was the concert?’  
  
  
‘Excellent. And I’ve made some successful progress on the case, too.’  
  
  
‘I’m very glad to hear it. I – I was just about to retire to bed, actually.’  
  
  
She was acutely conscious that Sherlock’s eyes were drifting over her shoulder, but Alice was staying impressively silent.  
  
  
‘Why have you been drinking brandy from two separate glasses?’ Sherlock asked, her voice level but with a hint of something like amusement behind it.  
  
  
Joan froze. ‘Well, I – that is to say –‘  
  
  
‘Why don’t you introduce me to your visitor?’  
  
  
There seemed nothing for it. Joan glanced at Alice, who, looking slightly petrified, stepped into view next to her.  
  
  
‘This is my niece, Alice,’ Joan said. ‘I’m sorry for hiding her from you, but the circumstances of her being here are a little delicate. She’s run away, in fact, and she’s afraid of her presence here becoming known and my brother coming after her. He drinks, and he can be violent.’  
  
  
It wasn’t a bad explanation, she thought, considering the speed with which she’d been forced to invent it. Alice’s state of undress was unfortunate, but if Joan was her aunt then appearing in front of her in that way was far more acceptable than it might have been otherwise.  
  
  
‘I would hardly have revealed the presence of a girl to anyone who might do her harm,’ Sherlock said, raising her eyebrows. ‘The deception seems a little unnecessary.’  
  
  
‘I know. I’m sorry. I just panicked.’ Well that, at least, was certainly the truth.  
  
  
‘May I ask your father’s name?’ Sherlock asked Alice, suddenly.  
  
  
Alice looked even more terrified. ‘William,’ she said. Which wasn’t Joan’s brother’s name, but she could easily say it was, and Sherlock was hardly likely to ever meet the man. ‘Why?’  
  
  
To Joan’s shock, Sherlock suddenly reached over, lifted her hand, and ran her fingers over Joan’s wrist, skimming veins and skin and finally her watch. Then she smiled, and dropped it. ‘Just idle curiosity,’ she said, softly. ‘I’m sorry for your difficulties. Please do stay as long as you like. Goodnight, both of you.’  
  
  
Sherlock retired to her room. Joan offered Alice her bed and then ruefully retreated to the sofa in the living room. Alice, at least, was very good-natured about the situation, laughing and thanking Joan for giving her a bed for the night.  
  
  
She left early the next morning, and no sooner had she gone when Sherlock turned to Joan and said, ‘Are you planning on telling me the truth about last night at any point?’  
  
  
‘I really have no idea what you mean,’ Joan said, doing her best to keep her voice from sounding strained.  
  
  
‘Hand me your watch.’  
  
  
Joan was sufficiently shocked that she did so, unfastening it and handing it over.  
  
  
‘You took it off the other day in order to wind it,’ Sherock remarked. ‘And I took the liberty of examining it. I was bored, you see.’  
  
  
‘I really don’t see what this has to do with –  
  
  
‘You do have a brother, and he does drink. He gave you this watch, a man’s watch, but you liked it anyway. But since the initials engraved are H.W. I think it’s unlikely that his Christian name is William.’  
  
  
‘The brother who gave me this watch and the brother whose daughter stayed here last night are not the same person,’ Joan said, keeping her breathing steady. ‘I have two, as it happens.’  
  
  
‘The scratches on this watch could only have been made by a heavy drinker, a man who tries to wind his watch and hasn’t the coordination to do it properly,’ Sherlock said. ‘Are you telling me you have two brothers who drink?’  
  
  
‘It’s known to run in families.’  
  
  
‘Where is she now, your niece?’  
  
  
‘She went to stay with my parents.’  
  
  
‘Not much family resemblance between you two.’  
  
  
‘She takes after her mother.’  
  
  
‘Joan, please,’ Sherlock’s voice was suddenly far gentler. ‘Tell me what you’re hiding. I promise you, you won’t regret it.’  
  
  
‘I’m not hiding anything.’ Joan took back her watch and refastened it on her wrist.  
  
  
Sherlock sighed, then seemed to abruptly shift mood. ‘All right then, no more on the subject. Let me tell you the latest developments concerning the case.’  
  
  
*  
  
  
It should have worked.  
  
  
Since Dr. Watson had been so obliging as to write up the John Clay case, Moriarty knew precisely how Holmes had worked out what was happening. All Moriarty had to do, after making contact with Clay, was to remove those clues. He had Clay change his trousers before answering the door when he had been digging the tunnel so that it would not be obvious what he had been doing, and the tunnel was filled with bricks on the day that Moriarty knew Holmes to be arriving, so that when she struck the ground with her stick there would be nothing to indicate that the area beneath it had been hollowed out. Clay could unfortunately not be persuaded to abandon the rather ridiculous red-headed league idea, but Moriarty felt that he had taken enough precautions to ensure that the robbery of the French gold would go off without a hitch.  
  
  
He insisted that Clay carry out the actual robbery, in exchange for which he would be entitled to eighty per cent of the gold rather than merely half. Since Moriarty intended to kill the man immediately after finishing the job, take the gold and depart to another universe, this was not a problem. Moriarty himself had acquired a job working with the bank’s security, in order to be on the scene but in no danger of being caught.  
  
  
It was an unpleasant shock, therefore, when the chairman of the bank said to him, on the evening that the scheme had been planned for, that a detective by the name of Sherlock Holmes was concerned that something might be happening that night and had insisted that she, her companion, and the chairman wait in the vault.  
  
  
Moriarty did his best to dissuade the man, saying that he had heard of the woman and that she was highly unreliable and had in fact been treated for hysteria, but the chairman wouldn’t budge, and minutes later Moriarty found himself in the vault with the chairman, Holmes, Watson and a police officer, and no way at all of warning Clay what was about to happen.  
  
  
The chairman struck the floor and exclaimed that it was hollow, and Holmes snapped at him to be quiet.  
  
  
Moriarty could not quite bear to be silent any longer. ‘May I ask, Mr. Holmes, how you came to determine that an attempt was to be made on the French gold tonight?’  
  
  
Holmes stared at him. ‘ _Mr._ Holmes?’  
  
  
‘Miss Holmes,’ Moriarty said hurriedly. He was affecting a working man’s accent, and the effort going into that had caused him to be momentarily distracted; this haughty, upright woman was so much like the Holmes he knew that the fairly crucial difference had slipped his mind.  
  
  
‘I was directed to the matter by a pawnbroker,’ Holmes said with a smile. Moriarty already knew that, of course. ‘I will tell you the curious story of the red-headed league when we have completed our task, if you like. Suffice it to say for now that I was suspicious of the man’s assistant on account of the fact that he offered to work for half wages and disappeared into the basement for much of the day.’  
  
  
The half-wages had worried Moriarty, but he had been able to see no other way of ensuring that Clay was hired. He should have thought of something else, he thought, deeply annoyed with himself.  
  
  
‘I admit, however, that I very nearly dropped the matter when the indications I was looking for, that a tunnel was being dug from the pawnbroker’s house to this bank, were not in evidence.’  
  
  
‘And why didn’t you?’ Here was the crux of the matter.  
  
  
Holmes was smiling again. ‘When I explained the situation to Miss Watson here, she was adamant that we ensure no harm was done, however small the chance was that anything was actually going to happen. She has a very strong sense of justice, you see, and was horrified by the possibility that our inaction might lead to a crime of this magnitude slipping through our fingers. And as the ground beneath the vault has clearly been hollowed out, she was clearly right to insist on our coming here.’  
  
  
She was beaming at Watson now, her eyes wide in the dim light. Data was flooding Moriarty’s head, data that he had failed to see in his own universe but had always been there. Holmes’s hand, where it rested on the ground next to Watson’s, twitched slightly as she spoke, as if she were restraining herself from reaching out to intertwine their fingers. And she had come to sit in a dark cellar with very little evidence that any crime was to occur because her friend had wanted her to.  
  
  
Moriarty had wanted to find a world free of Sherlock Holmes, but it was occurring to him in this moment that Sherlock Holmes would not be half the threat without his – or her – Watson there too. Moriarty had never understood how Holmes had been able to defeat him, for however intelligent he was Moriarty surely was his superior in intellect and dedication, and now he wondered if this partnership, which he had never paid very much attention to, was the key to it.  
  
  
John Clay arrived, and was arrested. When Holmes and Watson left, Moriarty followed them.  
  
  
‘Wait,’ he heard Holmes say, and then she had taken Watson’s hand and was pulling her into a deserted alley. Moriarty did not dare follow them in there, but he waited out of sight around the corner, and listened.  
  
  
‘I want to talk to you about the other night.’  
  
  
‘I do wish you’d drop it. I’ve already told you everything there is to tell.’  
  
  
‘As you’re not going to tell me what happened,’ Holmes said, ‘I shall tell you.’  
  
  
‘Sherlock –‘  
  
  
‘You had a young woman in a state of some undress in your room. She assuredly was not your niece, or any relative. Her corset and sash had been thrown onto the bed. Personally, when I undress myself, I don’t toss my clothing about in that way. That only happens when the undressing is done by somebody else, and is – well, a little more heated than when one is merely getting ready to sleep.’  
  
  
Silence.  
  
  
‘You’re very charming when you’re flushed with horrified embarrassment,’ came Holmes’s voice again, casually amused. ‘I probably shouldn’t like it as much as I do, as it’s clearly unpleasant for you, but it’s quite an attractive shade of pink.’  
  
  
‘I’m sorry,’ came Watson’s voice, almost too quiet to hear. ‘I – please don’t say anything about it. I’ll leave if you like, or if you’re sufficiently generous as to allow me to stay, though I realise that’s staggeringly unlikely, I can promise you that nothing of the kind will ever happen again.’  
  
  
‘It had better not,’ Holmes said, her voice lower than before, almost a hiss.  
  
  
‘It won’t, I swear it, I would never –‘  
  
  
‘Bringing back strangers, women who could have any kind of disease, no regard for your own safety at all – simpering girls in overpriced dresses who know nothing about you and don’t care that they know nothing – no, you’ll never do that again as long as you’re living with me.’  
  
  
‘I’ve already _said_ -‘  
  
  
Then there was silence, except not quite silence, and Moriarty took the risk of peering round into the alley and saw that Watson had been pushed against the wall and was looking slightly shocked, as well she might, at being violently kissed by her flatmate in a public street with no warning whatsoever.  
  
  
It was time, Moriarty decided, for him to leave.  
  
  
The machine was safely where he left it. He very nearly decided to ignore Moran’s next set of coordinates, because really, Moriarty could make these decisions for himself, but then again his discoveries in this world had been illuminating, and there might be more to be discovered.  
  
  
 _James Moriarty keys in the coordinates and vanishes from this version of London in 1890.  
  
  
On a street not far away, Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson are still kissing, hands buried in each other’s hair, ecstatic. They only look up when a grating, rumbling noise causes them to jump apart in alarm, and a machine identical to the one into which Moriarty has just climbed appears in front of them.  
  
  
A dark-haired man in a long black coat and a blue scarf steps out. ‘Get in,’ he says, ‘Quickly. I’ll explain on the way.’_


	2. MORIARTY - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AUs in this chapter: future AU with Holmes and Watson as androids  
> Warnings for this chapter: non-con, violence, racism, sexism, alternate universe bigotry

When Moriarty stepped out of the machine he found dawn light bathing his face, and Moran standing there, waiting. It was surprisingly pleasant to see a familiar face after so much time away from his own world.

 

‘Hi,’ Moran said.

 

Moriarty frowned. ‘What on earth does that mean?’

 

‘Oh –‘ Moran looked slightly embarrassed. ‘It’s a greeting they use here. I’ve been here for a couple of months now; I must have picked up some of their expressions. Unlike the last place I – and presumably you – visited, it isn’t anything like our world. It took quite a lot more groundwork to prepare it for you. Thank God you got here. I had no idea if it would work.’

 

‘If what would work?’

 

‘The idea is that when I finally get back to our London I’ll give you a list of coordinates, one of which will be this time and place, and you’ll come back to meet me here. The fact that you’re here implies I survive to get home, which is quite comforting. And, more remarkably, that you actually pay attention to my suggestions.’

 

Moriarty looked around him. They were standing in a deserted street in what was probably some kind of city, although it looked nothing like any city he’d ever seen. The buildings were all low and flat, and their roofs were covered in odd panels.

 

Following his gaze, Moran said, ‘They absorb sunlight. It provides energy for the houses.’

 

It was indeed abnormally hot, considering how early in the morning it was. ‘I assume we’re not in England,’ Moriarty said. ‘With weather like this.’

 

‘No, we are. In London, in fact. But this is a long way ahead in time of where we are, and apparently England becomes a lot warmer in the intervening period.’

 

It was hard to believe that this was London. But looking over the odd flat buildings, Moriarty could see some older-looking buildings in the distance, the type of houses that he recognised from his own time. He was glad to see that the years hadn’t destroyed all of them.

 

Anyhow. To business.

 

‘Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,’ Moriarty said. ‘Do they exist in this London?’

 

Moran hesitated. ‘I…not exactly – or, well. In a way. It’s a little hard to explain. I think it’s best if you see for yourself.’

 

Moriarty was about to give him strict orders to explain himself, when, slightly to his alarm, all of the lights in all of the houses around him switched off.

 

‘The panels absorb light during the day and then produce it at night, I think,’ Moran said, ‘though I don’t fully understand the process. Anyway, they’re not allowed lights on during the day.’

 

The building nearest them, however, which was far bigger than any of the others, still had all of its lights blazing through the windows. It was the only building with more than two storeys, and the way in was blocked by an impenetrable-looking door surrounded by a complicated series of buttons.

 

‘That’s a military building,’ Moran said. ‘They’re exempt from the ban on lights during daytime. It’s also where you’re going.’

 

‘That sounded very much like an attempt to give me orders,’ Moriarty said warningly.

 

‘No, of course not.’ Moran sounded slightly impatient. ‘I chose a military building because to begin with I had no idea how to fit in, and I thought I had a better chance with fellow soldiers than anyone else. And because I imagine infiltrating an army facility will be a useful way for you to begin whatever you end up planning here. They’re expecting you there; you’re their new scientific advisor. But if you don’t think full access to an important military base will be useful to you, of course there’s no need to go.’

 

The man was right, of course, and Moriarty was sure he stifled an insubordinate grin when Moriarty was able to come up with no reply.

 

‘I must be getting on,’ Moran said. ‘Actually, come to think of it – did I give you a piece of paper with the coordinates on?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘May I see?’

 

Moriarty handed it to him, and he glanced down. ‘Good, that’s where I’ll go next, then.’

 

‘You can’t do that!’ Moriarty protested. ‘That’s a paradox.’

 

‘Too late now, isn’t it? If the world does implode because of me, I apologise. My version of the machine’s round the corner.’

 

Looking thoroughly pleased with himself, Moran handed the paper back to Moriarty and strode away.

 

Really, the nerve of the man.

 

There seemed nothing else to be done, so Moriarty approached the door of the army building. Before he could knock, it swung open. A negro woman in a blue uniform strung with an impressive array of medals was standing there, smiling at him. At his surprised expression she said, ‘Saw you on the intercom. Come on in.’

 

Inside, the facility was all corridors and lights set cleverly into the ceiling. ‘I’m Captain Michaels,’ the woman said. ‘But as you’re not a soldier, you can call me Corrie. Nice to meet you.’

 

Moriarty could only gape at her in a highly undignified fashion. _Captain?_ Moriarty had no quarrell with negroes joining the army - they could be excellent fighters with the right leadership - and Moriarty could even, if he strained his imagination to its limits, conceive of advantages to having women join too - even negro women. But this woman was not only in the army; she was in a senior position. Perhaps she was the head of some sort of negro women's division? And yet she appeared to be supervising him, which strongly implied that she had the authority to give orders to white men. He had absolutely no idea what to say. 

 

‘You’re Professor Moriarty, correct?’ she went on.

 

‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’

 

She grinned. ‘Bet people have a lot of fun with that name. It’s particularly funny, actually, having you here; you’ll see why. C'mon.'

 

A few minutes later she was entering a code into a door and apparently presenting her fingertips to be assessed by it in some way. Stepping through, Moriarty took in what must be the hub of the building; it was full of curious machines.

 

‘You’ll mostly be working in here,’ the woman - _'Corrie'_ \- said. ‘It’s all simple enough, as the androids will do most of the work for you. They’re very good. Your real job will be to supervise them and keep them running efficiently. So let’s take you to meet them next. And you’ll see why I laughed at your name.’

 

She went across to the other side of the room, and threw open what Moriarty had presumed to be a cupboard. ‘Holmes, Watson,’ she called. ‘I’ve got someone to introduce to you.’

 

*

 

When there was no reply, Corrie rolled her eyes and stepped through the door, motioning for Moriarty to follow her.It was a fairly plain room, containing a double bed, a violin, a variety of odd machines and not much else. Apart, that is, from two alarmingly familiar men.

 

They were kissing, or at least they were until Corrie coughed pointedly, at which point they sprang apart, looking slightly guilty.

 

‘No sex during work hours,’ Corrie said warningly. ‘We talked about this. Rules have to apply to everyone.’

 

‘Sorry,’ the man who looked like Dr. Watson said. Except he wasn’t quite identical, Moriarty realised. There was something peculiar about his hair, which seemed too thick and too smooth, and the shape of the bones under his skin.

 

‘This is our new scientific advisor, Professor Moriarty,’ Corrie said. ‘Professor, these are the two androids who work for our facility, Holmes and Watson.’

 

Moriarty considered the term ‘android’. It must be Greek in origin, and he ran through a dictionary in his head, before coming up with the result: _avop-oid_ : ‘Having the form or likeness of a man.’

 

Were they not really human, then? And if not, what _were_ they?

 

He could not ask the question, for fear of giving away his ignorance of the world he was in, so he said only, ‘Why is my name in conjunction with theirs so amusing?’

 

Corrie looked astonished. ‘You haven’t read the Conan Doyle books?’

 

He had heard the name before – oh yes, of course, it was the pseudonym Watson used for his publications. But here it seemed to mean something else. He shook his head.

 

‘But you must have heard of – oh, well, anyway, they’re about a detective called Sherlock Holmes and his sorta sidekick, Dr. Watson. And their nemesis is called Professor Moriarty, so it’s just quite a funny coincidence, that’s all, that we named the androids after those characters and then you show up.’

 

‘Ah,’ Moriarty said, his mind whirling. Holmes and Watson did not exist in this world; they were fictional characters, as, alarmingly, was he himself. And yet these beings, whatever they were, shared their names and looked identical to them. He tried to get his head round the idea.

 

There seemed nothing to be done but to put out his hand politely and say, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ They each shook it, and Corrie nodded approvingly for some reason.

 

‘Right, you two,’ she said, ‘I’m taking the Professor to meet Jacobs; then I’ll be sending them both back here to get properly acquainted. No shagging while I’m gone.’

 

‘As if we would ever do such a thing,’ Holmes said.

 

Corrie laughed, but then became serious again. ‘Seriously, guys. I mean it. We’re this close to getting you a proper rank and you know how some people get about android sexuality. I don’t want to put anyone off when we’re this close.’

 

Holmes’s expression darkened, and he didn’t say anything. Corrie flushed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – look, of course you shouldn’t have to earn what’s rightfully yours, and of course you shouldn’t care what they think, but things are the way they are.’

 

Holmes shrugged. Corrie fidgeted, and then sighed and left the room again, Moriarty after her.

 

‘I’m glad you shook hands with them,’ she said, as they left the hub and made their way down another mass of corridors. ‘I keep a very strict policy on android equality in this base, so it’s nice to see I hopefully won’t have to lecture you too much. I’m always having to yell at Jacobs about it. If he weren’t such a good engineer I’d have fired him ages ago, but the bastard’s practically indispensable, and he knows it.’

 

Moriarty, slightly scandalised at the foul language emerging from the woman’s mouth, said nothing, just nodded uncomfortably.

 

‘Jacobs!’ Corrie yelled, banging on what seemed to be an office door.

 

A pale man with sandy brown hair stepped out and said, languidly, ‘Oh, you’ve brought me a new science advisor. Coretta, you shouldn’t have.’

 

‘Captain, thanks, Jacobs, unless you want a week of latrine duty.’

 

‘Apologies, _Captain_. I’m Corporal Adam Jacobs, Professor.’ He put out his hand, and Moriarty shook it.

 

‘I suppose you’ll be wanting me to show the Professor how the robots work?’

 

‘Right, week of latrines it is. We’ve talked about vocab, Jacobs.’

 

He rolled his eyes. ‘Androids. Fine. I don’t see what difference it makes, but you’re the boss.’

 

‘Yes, I am. And yes, I do want you to assist the Professor in understanding how to work with them. Which means, Jacobs, that you talk to them, and the four of you have a discussion about how best to work together, and you let them explain their own bodies and _you_ only cut in to explain things in more human terms to help Professor Moriarty understand. Not that you switch them off without permission and open them up. Clear?’

 

‘Crystal. Shall I get on, then?’

 

‘Please.’ She turned to Moriarty. ‘I’ll be in my office if you need me; Jacobs can show you where it is. Pleasure meeting you.’ She strode off in the direction away from the one they’d come from, as Moriarty and Jacobs set off back towards the hub.

 

‘Know much about robots?’ Jacobs asked.

 

Moriarty shook his head.

 

‘Well, you’ve met them once. What did you think? Any questions so far?’

 

Moriarty considered this, then said, somewhat uncomfortably, ‘When we walked in they were kissing, and Captain Michaels told them they weren’t supposed to have sex while on duty. But it didn’t appear to me to be intercourse.’

 

‘Oh, God, they were at that again, were they? Disgusting, isn’t it? Anyway, yes, that’s sex for them. They don’t have sex organs, but their mouths are some kind of erogenous zone, or the closest they have to one. It’s fucking weird. I’ll be able to explain properly when we examine them.’

 

Watson flinched slightly when Jacobs entered the room, and Holmes stood up fractionally straighter.

 

‘Morning, you two,’ Jacobs said. ‘I’m here to show our new science advisor how you tick. So which of you’s it to be?’

 

Holmes said coldly, ‘You don’t have our permission to deactivate us, and if the Captain hears you’ve been doing it without consent, which I assure you she will –‘

 

‘She’ll put me on latrines for a month and probably fine me, and won’t dare to do anything else in case I walk out and they’re back to the usual incompetents. Come on, guys, I haven’t got all day, and I’m being generous letting you choose. Which one?’

 

They both stepped forward simultaneously, then glared at each other. There was a brief argument held under their breaths, which Holmes presumably won, as Watson crossed the room to sit on the bed, looking both mutinous and deeply unhappy.

 

‘Deactivate him too while you’re doing it, please,’ Holmes said, in the same cool tone, though Moriarty thought he could detect a tiny waver. ‘I don’t want him to watch.’

 

‘Sure, anything you say,’ Jacobs said, smirking. He fished a thin cuboid tipped with a glowing light from his pocket and pointed it first at Watson, then at Holmes. It emitted a clicking noise each time, and their heads drooped, eyes slipping shut.

 

‘Peace and quiet,’ Jacobs said. He walked over to where Holmes was standing, unconscious but still somehow upright.

 

‘Now then,’ he said. ‘You were curious about their mouths.’

 

He had been carrying a toolkit with him, and he now opened it, and rummaged around before withdrawing a metal ring. He forced Holmes’s mouth open, and then fitted the ring carefully inside, so that it remained that way.

 

‘Come here,’ he said, and Moriarty came close to peer into the android’s mouth.

 

‘All of what would be bone for us is metal in them,’ Jacobs said. He had lifted a thin pointer from his toolkit. ‘See, there’s the hard palate.’ He jabbed it. ‘The soft palate’s made of real muscle – they grow it in labs somehow, I think – but the mucous membrane part’s a polymer. It’s electrically charged, as well, and there’s effectively a microscopic computer in there. Deals with viruses.’ Moriarty nodded. ‘Now these –‘ he ran the pointer along Holmes’s tongue – ‘these are taste buds. Which are decidedly not part of standard manufacture, because what would be the point? He added them himself, and to the other one as well. He won’t say what for, but we all know it’s a sex thing. Look.’

 

He stroked his fingers over the tongue and Holmes let out a tiny gasp.

 

‘I thought you’d switched him off?’ Moriarty said in surprise.

 

‘Yeah, but it’s just like they’re asleep, really, they can still respond to stimuli.’ He tickled the tongue with the pointer, and Holmes squirmed slightly, without opening his eyes.

 

‘Apparently they get off on taste as much as touch,’ Jacobs continued. ‘And they like the taste of metal. Iron especially. God knows why.’

 

Fascinating. Moriarty walked round the unconscious body, examining it from all angles.

 

‘Their fingers are sensitive too,’ Jacobs said. ‘Twice as many nerve endings as us, since they need to do very delicate work with the computers. They use handholding like kissing. The hands are also the bit that goes wrong the most, as they’re so complicated; they occasionally just freeze up. If that happens, all you need to do is break one of the fingers, and the healing program’ll kick in to fix it, and sort out any other problems in the process. They’ll complain, but it’s by far the easiest way. Now, this is for you.’

 

He lifted a cuboid identical to the one he’d used to turn the androids off and handed it to Moriarty. ‘You’ll need to switch them off sometimes. You’re not meant to do it without their permission, but all you have to do is convince them you need to do essential maintenance or something. They won’t be able to sense or remember anything that happens to them once they’re off, so you’ve pretty much got free rein after that.’

 

He winked, then cupped Holmes’s tongue with his fist and began sliding it back and forth. ‘They have got a sort of equivalent of orgasm,’ he said conversationally as he did so, ignoring the way the android was shivering and letting out small suffocated moans. ‘I tried it once, just out of curiosity; he spasmed a bunch of times and produced a load of static electricity. Which gave me a load of shocks, and I won’t be doing that again in a hurry.’ He laughed. ‘Fortunately, they can’t get to that stage without electricity. They can produce it, and when they’re fucking they give each other little shocks, but if you don’t shock them they just get wound up. They wake up all fidgety; it’s quite funny.’

 

And it was amusing, Moriarty had to admit, even if he couldn’t quite approve; Sherlock Holmes, who had been cool and collected even when he thought he was about to die, writhing about in front of him.

 

‘The brain cavity’s at the back,’ Jacobs said. ‘I won’t open that now, as it’s really just for emergencies, but if something goes badly wrong that’s where you’ll need to dive in.’

 

‘Understood.’

 

‘Excellent. Now, I think that’s really all the android-101 you need. C’mon and I’ll show you the ins and outs of the hub.’

 

*

 

Jacobs clicked the remote as he left the room and Holmes’s eyes opened in time to see the door swing shut.

 

The tension coursing through his body told him something of what had been happening to him while he was asleep, but he preferred not to think about that, so he pushed all thoughts of Jacobs from his mind and went to cross the room to sit on the bed next to Watson, who was looking at him with a sadness that Holmes couldn’t bear.

 

All he said, however, was: ‘Me next time.’

 

‘Well. We’ll see,’ Holmes said, having no intention of allowing anything of the kind.

 

Watson frowned at him. ‘We’ll discuss that when you’re in a better state to argue, I suppose.’ He put his hand over Holmes’s and closed his fingers around it; not a proper kiss, but a comforting weight to keep him anchored.

 

‘I’m going to get him fired,’ Holmes assured him. ‘I think I have a way of doing it, but it’ll need some more thought. I don’t intend there to _be_ a next time.’

 

*

 

‘Why is there a violin in their room?’ Moriarty asked Jacobs as he was introduced to the bizarre machines that filled the base’s central room.

 

‘Holmes plays it. He’s – not quite right, that one. Full of programming faults. Anyone else would’ve taken him back to the supplier and exchanged him when they realised, but not Coretta Michaels, oh no. She loves that she’s got a robot that composes music and can tell everywhere you’ve been since he last saw you by looking at your shoelaces.’

 

*

 

Holmes didn’t have to ask, for which he was grateful. It would, at that point, have undone him to say, ‘I haven’t got a single word in my head to say at the moment, it’s all a seething _blank,_ and if I don’t get some of this white noise out one way or another I’ll –‘ no. That would have been terrible. But Watson crossed the room to bring him his violin without Holmes opening his mouth. (He felt that he would be quite happy if he never had to open his mouth again.)

 

‘You’ll get rid of him,’ Watson said, his voice low and gentle, slipping in amongst the first notes. ‘I know you will.’

 

_However much I try to convince him, and however well I’ve managed it so far, Watson  won’t let me get away with taking the damage every time. Sooner or later that man will get his hands on him._

This thought, Holmes realised a moment later, had presented itself to the world in a shriek of strings, and Watson was gazing at him with an utterly miserable expression. Which wouldn’t do. Holmes switched to a lighter, softer, more upbeat tempo, but it did nothing to lift the twisted look from Watson’s face. If anything he looked worse.

 

‘For God’s sake, Holmes,’ he said, ‘don’t you _dare_ play happy little ditties for me – I’m not – just, play what you need to play. Please.’

 

In the end, he couldn’t bear to do anything else, couldn’t have kept up the more cheerful music for another second if he tried, though he hated subjecting Watson to music that made him look like his soul was being ripped into small pieces.

 

_According to Jacobs, Watson doesn’t actually  have a soul. And neither do I, but that makes rather more sense as a concept. Suggesting that the best man in the world is soulless proves Jacobs to be an idiot, of course, but knowing that doesn’t really help us much._

 

‘You could leave the room while I’m playing,’ he offered. ‘I’ll come and get you when I’ve finished.’

 

Watson smiled sadly, and shifted off the bed to come and stand next to him. ‘I’d never miss a chance to hear you play. Even when you sound like you’re dragging every note out of your own skin.’

 

Holmes put down the violin then to kiss him fiercely then, fingers twining and scraping up and down against each other, twisting in each other’s grip. He couldn’t not, not with the best man in the world standing there and listening to a far inferior person spitting and choking the worst of his feelings into music and still insisting the end product was something worth hearing.

 

*

 

The days at the base were not as successful as Moriarty had hoped.

 

Theoretically, working at an army base ought to have been the perfect plan. But in practice his security clearance was not high enough to access the really destructive potential of the base, and, while he was confident that in time he could learn how to get to it without permission, his unfamiliarity with the machines involved meant that it would take more time than he was really prepared to give up.

 

And Holmes was always hovering nearby, watching him suspiciously, and as he had quickly proved to be identical to his namesake in more ways than just appearance, Moriarty knew that it would be difficult to get away with trying anything.

 

He had become friends with the engineer, who was clearly very intelligent in his own field, and who might have made a useful part of Moriarty’s network in his own time. He was, admittedly, hardly a gentleman, but he was good company nevertheless. Over the next week or so Moriarty was also introduced to other members of the base. Several soldiers, a variety of scientific workers who could assist Moriarty with his job, a new employee called Jim who was responsible for ‘Information Technology’, whatever that might mean, and the cleaning and cooking staff. There was no one of his class here, not even the officers, which was something of a shock, but they were all quite tolerable as human beings. He would even go so far as to say he was enjoying himself, but he needed to focus. If he could not find a way to develop a plan here soon, he would have to leave.

 

*

 

‘Jacobs is up to something,’ Watson said, coming through the door of their room and quickly shutting it behind him.

 

‘Up to something more than being himself, which ought in itself to be illegal?’

 

‘Yes. I caught him in the hub after hours, and he was very shifty and defensive about it. Couldn’t wait to get out of there; couldn’t even be bothered to insult me.’

 

Holmes jumped to his feet. ‘We’ve got him,’ he whispered. ‘I really think we have – tell me, which of the computers was he on? The central core?’

 

‘No, the accounting circuit –'

 

‘Oh, yes! I hoped he would – and all we have to do is ensure the Captain catches him at it.’

 

Watson smiled. ‘As good as it is to see you looking happy, I would appreciate it if you told me what you’d worked out, for once.’

 

Holmes must have looked put out, because Watson said, with a slight laugh, ‘Oh, all right, you can have your dramatic reveal if you must.’

 

Holmes grinned at him, and left the room in a hurry to suggest a course of action to Captain Michaels.

 

*

 

It was time to leave, Moriarty decided. Moran’s ideas had been potentially sensible, but ultimately lacking. This place was no use to him.

 

‘Oh, you’re not going already, are you?’ Moriarty turned. It was Jim, the Information Technology professional whom he’d only spoken to once or twice.

 

‘Only to the hub.’

 

‘Don’t lie to me, James, it’s really very upsetting. And I’ve so enjoyed meeting you. Or – well, I’d already met you, in fact, but I’ve enjoyed you meeting me.’

 

‘What on earth are you talking about, man?’

 

‘ _You say goodbye and I say hello_ ,’ Jim sang, without any warning whatsoever. ‘ _Hello hello, I don’t know why you say goodbye, I say hello!_ ’ He smirked. ‘Do you know that song? Well, no, you wouldn’t, it having been written about a hundred years too late for you. I should have played it for you when I met you, it’s quite good, don’t you think? They did a version of it on _Glee_.’

 

The man was babbling, but there was something about his steady, amused stare that was deeply disturbing. ‘I’m sorry, but I must be getting on,’ Moriarty said.

 

‘Not till I’ve given you your present.’

 

Moriarty blinked at him. ‘That’s very kind, but really not necessary.’

 

‘Sure it is. I’m going to kill this version of Holmes for you. Come on.’

 

*

 

‘Corporal Jacobs, what precisely do you think you’re doing?’

 

Jacobs froze, his hand hovering over the touchscreen, as Captain Michaels grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away.

 

Holmes glanced at the screen. ‘As I thought. He’s hacking army funds into his own account. Very impressive work, I have to say, it’s not just any engineer who can get past top-level security. It’ll be a shame to lose him, but he can’t really work from jail.’

 

Watson was gazing at him with the look he’d never tire of, the one that said _you are spectacular, the most marvellous of all the things I’ve ever called mine, and you’ll never stop amazing me._ Holmes wasn't sure he really deserved it, not for anything this simple at any rate, but that didn’t make him enjoy it any less.

 

 ‘His vile flashy watch disappeared recently and was replaced by something much more tasteful, which he’d never have done of his own accord. So I knew he was short of cash. But then not long after that an even viler and flashier watch appeared, along with various other trappings, and I’ve been suspicious for a while. I thought perhaps he was blackmailing someone, but nobody in the base was exhibiting any emotional signs that might indicate that was the case, and an examination of his computer while he was out of his office proved that he wasn’t in contact with anybody outside that way; his phone showed the same result, and he hasn’t been leaving often enough to be having meetings in person. When you told me about him lurking in the hub after dark it gave me the last piece I needed to find out how he was getting the money.’

 

*

 

‘Isn’t it sweet?’ Jim said, standing in the doorway to the hub with Moriarty behind him.

 

‘Who are you?’ Moriarty hissed.

 

‘I’m your friend,’ Jim said. ‘I’m doing you a favour. Now, this is an automatic.’ He had produced a gun of some kind from his pocket. ‘Much better than air-guns, I assure you. Androids are very vulnerable in the back of the head; that’s where all their data is.’ He raised the gun. ‘Now, let’s just let the Captain arrest the bad engineer, and when they’re all happy – ‘ he giggled – ‘bang!’

 

‘There’s really no need for that,’ Moriarty said disapprovingly.

 

Jim turned his eyes on him. ‘’Scuse me?’

 

‘There’s no opportunity for me here. I’ll be going elsewhere. I don’t need to be concerned about Holmes foiling plans I don’t have. I don’t need him dead. I appreciate the offer, though I still don’t really understand why –'

 

‘ _I_ need him dead,’ Jim said. ‘I need to see his repulsive little friend sobbing over his body, and maybe then he’ll think twice about spoiling my game. I need to break them, I’ve never wanted to burn someone so badly in my life, and trust me, for me that’s saying a lot. I’d have thought you’d appreciate it. This is supposed to be your arch-nemesis. Get a grip.’

 

‘It’s no use being slapdash about your murders,’ Moriarty said, disapprovingly. ‘If you don’t keep to the ones that are strictly necessary you’ll never manage to stay out of prison.’

 

‘Oh, prison, I tried prison once, I quite enjoyed it, had it blown up within a week, quite proud of that. I don’t think you and I care about the same things.’

 

‘Who are you?’ Moriarty repeated desperately.

 

‘Who are _you_?’ the man spat back. ‘I’ve never been so disappointed to meet someone. You shouldn’t have told me not to kill him. I can’t have you walking around and using _that_ name to call yourself by and behaving the way you do, it makes me sick.’

 

He jumped to his feet and marched away down the corridor, turning back to yell, ‘You’re lucky I’m not just shooting you now. But I want something better than that for you. You and Sherlock together, that would be best, you and him and his pet.’

 

Moriarty stared after him, and decided that yes, it was definitely time to be getting out of this world. And he was ignoring Moran’s coordinates. He would go back in time, back to before either Holmes or Watson could possibly exist, and as far away from Jim as he could get.

   
*

_When the machine materialises in Holmes and Watson’s room, neither blinks an eye. ‘They’ve finally got the teleportation device up and running then, have they?’ Holmes asks, as the machine’s occupant steps out._

_‘Not precisely,’ he says. ‘You’re badly needed, both of you. I don’t suppose your base can spare you for a moment?'_


	3. MORIARTY - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AUs in this chapter: late Roman empire, with Holmes and Watson as members of a nomadic tribe, and universe in which the concept of gender doesn't exist  
> Warnings for this chapter: racism, ableism, non-graphic sex

Romans, Moriarty decided. That’s what he needed. Some civilisation, some culture, somewhere a long way in time and a reasonable distance in space from everywhere he’d been previously. He couldn’t possibly find Holmes and Watson in the third century A.D.

 

He would have felt more comfortable travelling earlier, as the Latin he’d learned in school was Classical and he suspected that the later language might have become perverted, though of course there was no way of telling whether the pronunciation he’d learned would be intelligible in any case. He ought to have delayed testing the machine until he’d been able to create a translation device as well, but he’d been so impatient. Most unlike him. The fear that his hideout would be discovered, the utter absence of power, acquisition, change of any kind, and his longing for a return to the kind of well-educated, well-dressed society he was used to – it had all been more than enough to drive him to a state as close to desperation as he had ever known.

 

Anyway. The earlier period would have been more desirable for all sorts of reasons. The idea of barbarians constantly assaulting the frontiers was not an appealing one. However, although the time machine could be persuaded to show coordinates earlier than 200 A.D., Moriarty had found in his brief experimentation that it would only do so with a great deal of coaxing. He had not tried actually travelling there, and was concerned that if he forced the machine beyond its limits, he would not be able to get back again. Much as he admired the Romans, he did not want to be trapped in their society for the rest of his life.

 

He would, he was sure, enjoy his short sojourn in the third century. It sounded rather chaotic for his tastes, but chaos did at least offer the potential for a strong figure to step into a manageably small community and bring order. The governors of provinces had a great deal of power, and impersonating one – no, no, never mind, there would be time to plan once he was there, and understood the layout of matters better. Making plans without having detailed information first was always unwise.

 

What was important was that there would be no Sherlock Holmes there to get in his way. He entered the coordinates.

 

*

 

He landed at the edge of what was unmistakably a barbarian camp. Wonderful. He wasn’t having an enormous amount of luck with this machine, it had to be said.

 

The rough, hastily erected buildings typical of the first settlements of previously nomadic groups would have been enough to tell him where he was. The appearance of the people he could see in the distance – who had thankfully not noticed the machine; he would have to drag it a little further from the village and out of sight – was another clue. They were most likely Huns, or possibly Avars – certainly not of European origin, at any rate. Eastern barbarians of some kind.

 

He dragged the machine away from the settlement, his arms shaking weakly, making extremely slow progress. He simply wasn’t cut out for physical labour. He was a creature of mind, not body, and in the right way of things he ought to have people around to carry out this sort of task for him. The sooner he could find somewhere to establish an organisation to command, the better.

 

After hiding the machine, he began to walk, hoping to find a Roman town if he carried on for long enough, when he spotted two figures in the distance. Hurrying forward, he stopped abruptly when he saw that they were only more barbarians. Probably from the same camp he’d landed in. They were both armed, swords sheathed in belts, and eyeing him warily. There was no way to escape. He was going to be disembowelled by Huns.

 

It occurred to him that they looked somehow familiar – one looked  _very_ familiar in a way that was impossible to place and had nothing to do with actual appearance. But Moriarty did not have any close association with Orientals. There had been some in his network, certainly, but he had not known them personally. This recognition was absurd.

 

A horrible suspicion formed, but he shook it off. That was a ridiculous thought. It couldn’t possibly be.

 

Coming up, they faced him, studying him thoughtfully. Moriarty stood rooted to the spot. The shorter and slightly fairer of the two said something in an unintelligible barbarian language. The other appeared to laugh, and replied in the same tongue. This conversation carried on for a while, until something the shorter one said caused the taller to glance at him irritably and snap, ‘Ars sonticus est.’

 

Moriarty jumped. ‘Are you Romans?’ he asked, cautiously, in Latin.

 

‘No,’ said the taller man, surveying him. ‘Are you?’

 

‘How is it that you speak Latin?’

 

‘How is it that you do?’ returned the man easily. ‘You won’t answer my question, but it’s fairly evident that you  _aren’t_ Roman. I’ve studied the language. I felt it would be useful to communicate with our neighbours.’

 

His Latin was cautious, precise, and a little cluttered, far from the Ciceronian style Moriarty had been taught to imitate – but it was surprisingly accurate. Moriarty was slightly thrown. This was not what Gibbon had led him to expect from the ‘herd of savages’ that destroyed the Roman empire.

 

So he asked the question he didn’t want to ask at all. ‘What is your name?’

 

‘Holmes,’ the man said. The pronunciation was peculiar, sounding as though there might be some extra ‘h’s and possibly an inexplicable ‘q’ in there somewhere, but it was nevertheless unmistakable. ‘And this is Watson.’ The sound again perverted, again instantly identifiable.

 

Moriarty stumbled backwards, and ran for the machine.

 

*

 

_A machine appears on the grass beside the two men as they watch the oddly dressed stranger run from them in to the distance. They spin round to gape at it. Holmes reaches out to touch it, and as he does, a man in a blue scarf steps out._

_‘Salve,’ the man with the scarf says. Then he simply smiles, and points to the machine. Holmes’s eyes light up, and he steps eagerly towards it. Watson grabs his hand, mutters something, looks worried. But their discussion takes only moments, then Watson smiles ruefully, nods, fails to mask a flash of excitement, and the three of them climb in._

*

 

All right. That was disastrous. Perhaps following Moran’s coordinates  _was_ the better idea for the time being, even though he had been no more successful at locating Holmes-free worlds. This was beginning to alarm Moriarty. Once was a startling enough coincidence, but three times was becoming absurd.

 

The fast, sharp look in Holmes’s eyes, his curiosity and intelligence, had showed up in - 'robots', or 'androids', or whatever they were - artificial apings of humanity. They had appeared in Orientals, in women. Moriarty would never have believed such things possible if he hadn’t witnessed them himself. It flew in the face of his understanding of the world, of mental capacity, of civilisation. Everything.

 

If he could not find a world without a Holmes, Moriarty decided, he would at least require a Holmes without a Watson. The man – or woman – had appeared again and again at Holmes’s side, and Moriarty had neglected to consider his importance for long enough.

 

If he couldn’t find a Watsonless universe, he would have to create one. Watson would undoubtedly be easier to kill than Holmes. Decision made, Moriarty entered Moran’s next set of coordinates.

 

*

 

At least following Moran’s instructions – not instructions, advice. No – no – and ‘following’ was an unfortunate word, too. That wasn’t what he was doing. He was simply traversing the territory with attention to the information gathered by the scouting team that had gone before him.

 

At least using the information to hand meant that he was sure of landing somewhere safe and out of sight. Tall glass buildings towered up all around him, but he was in an alley again, and one that appeared little-used.

 

A piece of paper pinned to a dustbin in front of him read: ‘This isn’t just another time period. I believe I’ve finally managed to land in an entirely different universe, one that’s similar to ours but developed differently. It’s rather hard to explain the differences. I think you’ll find it a little difficult to understand this place - I certainly did. There are no men or women – or, there are, but they don’t think they are. Or – no. I’m explaining this badly. You’ll have to see for yourself. Anyway. Holmes and Watson are here, but Watson’s more damaged than in our world, or anywhere we’ve found him so far. Weak. I would have taken him - or, her, or - oh, never mind - I would have taken Watson out for you, but I didn’t want to mess around with anything too much without your having looked around for yourself. We can discuss it all afterwards. Good luck.’

 

Difficult to understand! Moran’s intellect might have found the peculiarities of this place too much to cope with, but Moriarty highly doubted that he would have the same problem.

 

He took a step forward, and the ground vanished from underneath him.

 

Dazed and shaken, he sat up. He was in a sewer, he realised with some disgust. He got to his feet, and looked up. As he was staring up at the manhole through which he must have fallen, a ladder began descending slowly. And a light suddenly flicked on a few feet in front of him, bringing the wall ahead into clear view.

 

There were words on it, he realised, and he leaned forward to read them. They were painted in large capitals, in two rows:

 

TIME’S NEARLY UP

WE MEET SOON

 

He hesitated a moment, but, though wary of the ladder, he had no desire to walk through the sewer for hours searching for another one. He gripped it, and began to climb.

Lights began to come on in front of him as he climbed, illuminating more words, that appeared as he climbed up:

 

DEATH

BUT

NOTHING

YOU

OWE

I

 

Moriarty pulled himself out and cursed. He would have to find somewhere to bathe, and think about what on earth all this could possibly mean.

 

‘Are you all right?’ said a woman’s voice, and he turned to see a girl in unnecessarily loud clothing, with her hair stiffened somehow with some sort of waxy substance and tied, absurdly, into something rather like a bow on top of her head. Sections of it were also purple.

 

Moriarty had no idea how to talk to such a person, but he felt capable at least of answering her question. ‘Yes,’ he said. Which ought to have disposed of her, but she continued to look worried.

 

‘I run a hotel just round the corner,’ she said. ‘You can come and use a shower or bath there if you want – you’re not injured?’

 

‘Not injured,’ Moriarty confirmed. He hesitated. The woman was alarming, but perhaps everyone here was like this, and he could hardly avoid them all. And a bath sounded very appealing. ‘And yes – if I could use a bath that would be wonderful. Thank you.’

 

‘No prob,’ the woman said. ‘This way.’ She gestured, and they began walking.

 

Moriarty decided he might as well take the opportunity to see what she knew. Starting with the most important issue. ‘Do you know a man called Sherlock Holmes?’ he asked.

 

‘I know Sherlock, sure,’ she said. ‘But what’s a man? Christ, I thought  _consulting detective_  was a pretentious enough title, but I guess making up words  _would_ be the next logical step. Typical of.’

He blinked at her. The language had  _seemed_ identical, but evidently there were some differences. ‘A male person, is all I mean,’ he elaborated.

 

She stared at him. ‘A  _mailperson?_  Um, no, no, I know a Sherlock Holmes, but ‘sa detective, not a postan.’

 

‘The person I’m thinking of is a detective,’ Moriarty said. ‘Is he uncannily intelligent, would you say?’

 

She blinked. ‘Who’s He?’

 

‘Holmes.’

 

She frowned at him. ‘I – er – right. I see.’ She still looked puzzled. ‘Er, yeah, Sherlock’s a genius, yes. Living in my hotel at the moment, actually, with’s friend John.’

 

‘A doctor for the army,’ Moriarty said, heart sinking.

 

‘Was,’ the girl agreed. ‘Sent home, poor sod, had‘s arm and shoulder ripped off by an explosion, and one of’s ears. Got a leg badly damaged too on the same side. Can walk, but uses a wheelchair if ‘sgoing a long way, finds it hard work.’

 

Then they turned onto a relatively busy speech and, as he’d feared, everyone there was as bizarre looking as the girl, or worse. They passed a total of  _three_ men in skirts, and no one batted an eyelid at them. Apparently here, no one cared what sex anyone was - presumably what Moran had meant in his message. It was deeply disturbing.

 

‘I can introduce you to John and Sherlock if you like,’ the girl offered. ‘After you’ve had your bath. You can meet in the lounge in – half an hour, say? It’s just through there.’

 

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Moriarty said. He had no wish to meet them, and certainly none to put them on their guard. It sounded, from the girl’s description, as though Watson here would not be at all difficult to kill. And his death would undoubtedly disrupt Holmes’s mental abilities enough to allow Moriarty relatively free reign to conduct his activities.

 

‘Why were you asking about if you don’t even want to see?’ the woman said. ‘I assumed you were a client.’ She looked curious, rather than suspicious, but she would undoubtedly tell Holmes about the conversation. 

 

‘Why is he living in your hotel?’ Moriarty returned.

 

‘Why do you keep calling Sherlock "He"?’ she fired back.

 

‘I meant Holmes, apologies,’ Moriarty said. ‘I’m from Vicshire, we have a rather odd dialect there.’

 

‘Ah,’ the woman said, her face clearing. ‘Well, ‘sliving in my hotel because blew up’s flat, the idiot. Apparently it’s not even the first time. ‘S landan’s a good friend of mine. Tells me all about Sherlock over coffee, and one day says to me that’s gone and blown up the flat again and ‘sgot nowhere to stay while it’s being fixed up, so I offered. Not as bad as I thought. John keeps from doing anything too insane, I think.’

 

‘I see,’ Moriarty said, which was at least fifty per cent true.

 

At that moment the door of a room across the hall opened and a man with luxuriant shoulder-length black hair strode out of the room. His imperious expression should have been rendered ridiculous by the fact that he was wearing something that reminded Moriarty an awful lot of a woman’s corset and a skirt made of swishing tin spikes. Somehow, it wasn’t.

 

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he was calling back into the room. ‘They’re no threat.’

 

At this moment, two men, one in a fairly respectable looking suit and the other in what would have been a respectable looking suit if its skirt had been replaced with trousers, stepped out.

 

‘You must be Sherlock Holmes,’ one said, extending his hand.

 

'Indeed,' the man in the corset said, shaking it. Moriarty closed his eyes, then opened them again, but the scene remained distressingly identical.

 

Everything after that happened very fast. One of the suited men drew a gun, and was evidently about to shoot Holmes when a woman in a wheelchair suddenly came hurtling out of the room, her one hand holding a gun of her own. She fired it without any apparent hesitation or compunction, and the would-be assassin dropped to the floor. The other man glanced at her once, then bolted.

 

‘Told you so,’ the woman said cheerfully.

 

Holmes looked half-disgruntled, half-admiring. ‘Fine,’ he murmured. ‘That was impressive. You didn’t even have a second to aim.’

 

‘This new gun’s brilliant,’ the woman said. ‘Much less recoil than I’m used to, and easy to fire one-handed.’

 

‘No gun’s easy to fire one-handed,’ Holmes said, rolling his eyes. ‘Or at least not to aim. You’re just an absurdly good shot.’

 

She looked over him thoughtfully, and broke out into a smirk. ‘The effect my cold-bloodedly shooting people has on you. I think I should be worried.’ She pushed the gun into a pouch attached to the arm of the chair. Moriarty had the distinct impression that the pouch had been attached with exactly that purpose in mind.

 

Holmes smiled back at her and took a small object from his pocket. He poked it several times and then put it to his ear. ‘Hi, Lestrade? John’s killed someone. Yeah, I know, sorry. Self-defence. Well, defending me.’

 

The woman – John? – how ridiculous –  _Watson?_ – reached over and snatched the phone from him. ‘Stopping Sherlock getting’s self killed, as per usual,’ she said. ‘We’ll do police reports and everything in – oh, half an hour.’

 

Holmes grabbed the phone back. ‘An hour at least.’

 

She raised her eyebrows at him. Moriarty grimaced, and turned back to the hotel owner as Holmes and Watson went back through the door of their room.

 

‘My friend warned me this sort of thing’d happen if I let them stay,’ she said. ‘Oh dear. Er – you wanted to use the shower?’

 

‘Actually,’ Moriarty said. ‘I - I wanted to ask – you don’t – I mean, I know that the term  _man_ means nothing to you, but – er – distinguishing sexes. I mean.’ He stopped, horrified by how flustered he sounded. This was not something that happened to him. He cleared his throat. ‘I apologise for this question,’ he said. ‘It’s rather impolite. But – children. When, erm, reproduction. It – you need, er, two different sorts of – um – but you don’t distinguish – I mean, when you’re in conversation, how do you distinguish between the – er – sorts?’

 

‘Distinguish,’ she blinked. ‘Well. Er. I don’t know about impolite, but it’s a rather  _odd_ question. How often do you talk about reproductive organs in ordinary conversation?’ She laughed.

 

This universe was no good, Moriarty decided. He didn’t understand it, and he would never be able to become sufficiently comfortable and established here to carry out any sort of detailed plans. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I actually have a friend nearby whose bath I can use. Thank you so much for your offered hospitality. I – goodbye.’

 

What had Moran been playing at? They were going to have words when Moriarty caught up with him again. He had seen Sherlock Holmes in a corset, which he could certainly have lived without. But his attempt at deciding his own destination hadn’t gone particularly well either. Perhaps simply entering  _random_ coordinates was the best option. If Holmes had somehow discovered the machine – was tampering somehow – he couldn’t interfere with pure chance. He closed his eyes, and began pushing buttons.

 

*

 

_‘There’s – oh – someone’s – fuck, Sherlock – someone’s knocking.’_

_‘Don’t – fuck – don’t care.’_

_‘Might be important.’_

_‘It is important,’ says a slightly disapproving voice. ‘More important than – er – this.’_

_‘How did you get in? All right, we’re coming. Oh, don’t giggle, what are you, twelve?’_

_‘Perhaps I should let you finish what you’re doing. I’ll need your full concentration for the task I require of you, and I don’t feel I have it at the moment. I’ll be outside. Next to the enormous iron steam-belching time machine. You can’t miss it.’_


	4. SHERLOCK - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AUs in this chapter: this could be viewed as a Greek mythology AU with John as Theseus and Sherlock as Ariadne, or just as an AU set in the Minoan period, or a mixture of the two - it's largely based on Mary Renault's retelling of the Theseus myth in a historically plausible way in 'The King Must Die'  
> Warnings for this chapter: violence, slavery

‘Oh,’ Sherlock said. ‘Oh, _fuck._ ’

 

Swearing was not something Sherlock did often. He found it so frequently necessary to insult people or object to things, and it always seemed prudent to him to keep back a few particularly effective terms for emergencies. Certain words, due to arbitrary social conventions, had a particularly strong impact, and using them sparingly meant that when used they retained that impact. John, who swore constantly, at furniture he’d bumped into, in hushed tones at particularly maimed dead bodies, at uncooperative chip-and-PIN machines and, most of all, at Sherlock, could not expect to have anyone take notice when he did.

 

Sherlock, on the other hand, through his careful economy of language, had managed to create a situation in which he said _fuck,_ and John immediately looked up from what he was doing, his face anxious, and said: ‘What is it?’

 

What John was doing, in this instance, was looking through a file belonging to one of Jim Moriarty’s clients, trying to figure out what the consulting criminal was up to at the moment. They knew it was something, but had come here to try and find out what. Sherlock, holding a similar file and staring at the photograph on the page he had open, had just found the answer.

 

John crossed the room to look over his shoulder and then, after a pause, said, “Yes. I see what you mean. Um. Fuck.”

 

The picture was ostensibly of a man who worked for the client in question. In fact, it was Jim. Thoroughly, expertly disguised, with a mop of blonde hair and glasses and an entirely different bearing – the man was a master of becoming someone else, Sherlock had seen it for himself and felt a sense of slight bitterness that Moriarty might even be better than Sherlock was.

 

The picture was of a drugs drop-off. The client whose files they were viewing was deeply paranoid and a control-freak who secretly photographed his staff going about their illegal business, determined that if he were ever betrayed he’d take them all down with him. But John and Sherlock had been studying this client for a long time now, hoping that he’d lead them to Jim through his carelessness, and Sherlock knew for a fact that when this particular drop-off had happened, Jim had been at a certain swimming pool and not delivering drugs.

 

‘I guess we should have seen this coming,’ John said.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I – yes,” he said shortly. “I suppose so. I just – never mind.”

 

John looked at him oddly but didn’t press him. Sherlock thought: _the idea of having a dozen copies of myself around is horrifying. I would have expected Jim to feel the same way. The idea of his travelling out and bringing back more versions of himself to aid him occurred to me, of course it did. But I dismissed it; I thought he’d dislike the competition. I suppose I was – wrong._

An unpleasant thought. He brushed it aside. The real question was –

 

‘What are we going to do now?’ John asked.

 

Sherlock said nothing. John went on, tentatively, ‘I suppose we could – fight fire with fire, if you –‘

 

‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘I’d rather not. But we may have to.’

 

And something stirred in him at the thought. Because the idea of having dozens of copies of himself around might not be appealing, but the idea of dozens of copies of _John…_ somehow, that seemed a different proposition.

 

‘How are we going to find them, though?’ John asked.

 

‘I believe Moriarty may be able to help us,’ Sherlock said.

 

John blinked. Sherlock sighed. ‘For clarity’s sake, I’ll refer to our Victorian time traveller from another world as Moriarty, and to _our_ Moriarty as Jim.’

 

John scowled, evidently finding the idea of using the name _Jim_ distasteful. Then he said, ‘All right, but why would Moriarty help us any more than – than _Jim_ would?’

 

‘Irene told me, before she disappeared, that the Moriarty partnership was falling apart,’ Sherlock said. ‘She said that they were too alike in some ways and too different in others, and that their aims were entirely separate.’

 

‘And we trust her why?’ John demanded. He hadn’t yet forgiven Sherlock for lying about her. But he’d told the truth in the end, and surely that was what mattered? It had only been a month or so till he had. Surely that was nothing. But John didn’t seem to see it that way.

 

‘Because what she said makes sense,’ Sherlock retorted. ‘You met them both. How long would you expect that partnership to last? Neither of them are really team players, are they?’

 

‘Neither are you,’ John pointed out. 'And yet here I still am.'

 

‘No,’ Sherlock said, ‘But you _are_ a team player. If neithermember of a partnership has any real interest in accepting the other’s input, then – well.’

 

‘Fine,’ John conceded. ‘How do we get in contact with him?’

 

‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said a voice from behind. Sherlock and John turned as one, and there was James Moriarty, dapper as ever, smirking at them from the doorway.

 

‘Oh,’ John said.

 

‘Mm,’ said Moriarty. ‘So. You need a time machine, and a set of coordinates. And, rather to my own irritation, I find myself willing to help you, as my counterpart here is a lunatic, and I don’t much fancy managing an army of him. Please follow me.’

 

*

 

The realisation that they couldn’t both fit in the machine had led to an argument and nearly to a physical fight. But Sherlock had insisted that he would be much better at blending into new and strange cultures – he might know less about history, but it wasn’t as if John really knew all that much about anything beyond the basic secondary school syllabus, and Sherlock was a far better actor. John had, at last, reluctantly accepted this. So here Sherlock was, entering the first of the coordinates Moriarty had written down for him and sitting in a 19th century time machine, hoping to get out of it alive.

 

Stepping out, he was at first grateful for the fact that he had apparently managed to do so, and then curious. Moriarty’s hurriedly scrawled notes for the coordinates were not particularly illuminating – this one simply read: _Minoan. Mistress of the Labyrinth - dangerous._ Sherlock rarely had occasion to regret his refusal to retain irrelevant information, but he would have liked to know what ‘Minoan’ meant. And what the 'labyrinth' in question might be, or who its mistress was, he had no idea.

 

The machine was in a hollow in the ground, hidden from view to anyone not standing directly next to it. Sherlock scrambled out to get a better look at his surroundings.

 

He was standing in front of an imposing, beautiful building that must, he assumed, be some kind of palace. It was decorated with plaster frescoes; they showed what must be hunts and wars, but also artistic scenes – the nearest, near the bottom of one column, showed a man carefully painting a picture of the palace itself onto a pot.

 

There was an unfamiliar script elaborately carved around some of the pictures, too. Sherlock would, then, need the translation device that Moriarty had provided him with. He had only invented it very recently, making use of the excellent resources available in the 21st century, and it hadn’t undergone rigorous testing yet. Sherlock hoped it worked; the script looked like nothing he had ever seen before.

 

He pulled the little device out of his pocket and clipped it behind his ear as Moriarty had instructed him. And yes; the script was shifting, its letters moving, making Sherlock slighly dizzy. He was about to take a closer look when a voice spoke up behind him: 'Are you here for the games?'

 

Sherlock turned. There was a man standing there, looking at him with a slightly puzzled expression. 

 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said quickly. Best to run with the script he was being handed, for now at least.

 

‘Where are you visiting from?’ the man asked, frowning. ‘Not Athens, surely?’

 

Good. He could understand the man, and the man could understand him. However little Sherlock liked any version of James Moriarty, there was no denying his intelligence.

 

‘No,’ Sherlock said, in answer to the man's question. ‘Much further. Tiny place, you wouldn’t have heard of it. Would you take me to the games?’

 

‘Certainly,’ the man said. ‘The Twins haven’t opened the ceremony yet, I don’t think. If we hurry we should get there in time.’

 

They entered the palace through a side door and hurried through an incredible number of corridors. This was more than a palace; Sherlock realised – they passed artisans’ workshops, enormous storerooms, what looked like an archive of stone tablets – this was practically a city. A hub of administration, commerce, entertainment and just about everything else that this society contained. It was fascinating.

 

After some time, they passed through an enormous set of double doors and, blinking, Sherlock found himself in bright sunlight, at the top of a set of seats leading down to a large circular arena. The man found some free seats near the top and gestured to Sherlock to sit down, which he did.

 

As he did so, two figures, a man and a woman, stepped out onto a balcony that looked out from another part of the palace, on the other side of the arena. They were too far away to see properly, but they were both dark-skinned and dark-haired and richly dressed; Sherlock could see jewels on their clothes winking in the fierce sunlight.

 

The crowed roared, cheering wildly for them, and cheered again when a much older man stepped out behind them. The man glanced at Sherlock, and caught his quizzical expression. ‘Do you not know about our royal family?’ he asked, and, when Sherlock shook his head: ‘You really are from far away, aren’t you? All right. That’s King Mynos, and his twin children, Mistress and Master of the Labyrinth. Jirimeja and Sherlock.’

 

Sherlock managed not to visibly startle at the sound of his name, but it was a close thing. He looked harder at the twins, and still couldn’t make our their features, but the man’s bearing and stance were suddenly familiar. And so were the woman’s. Could she be Mycroft? But – no. No, that wasn’t it. If any of them resembled Mycroft, it was the King.

 

Who resembled Mycroft an awful lot, in fact. Sherlock scowled. It made sense that Mycroft would have found a way to make himself a king _somewhere._ He must never hear about it, though; he’d be unbearably smug.

 

Across the arena, Sherlock suddenly caught sight of James Moriarty, looking around him with evident interest. He must have arrived on the other side of the palace - presumably he'd modified the coordinates he'd given Sherlock slightly to ensure that they wouldn't both end up landing in the same place. Sherlock quickly looked away, and turned back to the man. ‘What’s the Labyrinth?’ he said.

 

The man smiled. Not an entirely nice smile, Sherlock thought; the man looked thrilled, captivated, almost sickeningly excited, and also, somehow, cruel. Sherlock considered it important to be able to read people’s faces, but it was rare that an emotional display could actually affect him. But all the man said was: ‘You’ll see.’

 

The twins were taking it in turns to speak, though Sherlock could barely hear them from here despite the fact that they were shouting. He gathered, however, that they were opening the annual ‘games’, which seemed to have some sort of ritual or religious element but be mostly for entertainment, and to feature Athenian tribute slaves.

 

And then they said some sort of prayer in unison, and as they did, there was a loud creaking, crunching sound, and the sand on the floor of the arena began to shift as part of the ground beneath it folded downwards like an enormous trapdoor, leaving a gaping hole in the middle of the area. Within the hole, Sherlock could see walls winding this way and that – a maze.

 

‘The Labyrinth,’ the man next to Sherlock said, unnecessarily. He still looked gleeful, and, as young men and women began to march out from doors all around the arena and stand stiffly around the gap in the middle, he went on: ‘In the first phase of the competition, the tributes fight it out. They fight until seven of the fourteen are subdued, and they are sent down to the Labyrinth. Then the seven winners fight again, this time to the death. The survivor is released from the arena and made a member of the royal household.’

 

‘Not freed?’

 

‘No. But they’re glad enough of the change by the time it occurs, I assure you.’

 

‘And the ones who go into the Labyrinth?’

 

‘In theory anyone who survives the Labyrinth and finds the way out is freed and returned to Athens,’ the man said. ‘But that’s never happened.’

 

He was smiling again. Inexplicably disquieted, Sherlock turned his attention back to the arena. And suddenly found he had trouble breathing.

 

On the other side of the arena, facing directly towards Sherlock, and looking around, weighing up his competition, was John. Unquestionably, John, even from this distance. Dressed, like the others, in a tunic with no armour and only a hard wooden stick for a weapon.

 

Sherlock looked up, and saw that his royal counterpart was standing up, though he and the princess had sat down after opening the games, and he was leaning forward, definitely looking in John’s direction. His sister was looking at him, but Sherlock couldn’t make out the expression. She tugged at the prince’s sleeve, and he slowly, apparently reluctantly, sat down again.

 

Someone out of sight blew a horn, and the people in the arena, without further delay, advanced towards each other and began to fight. As Sherlock watched, some began to overpower others, knocking them down with the sticks and shoving them, despite desperate retaliation, into the hole in the ground. Those that fell got to their feet and looked around them pitifully.

 

But John. John was not doing that, Sherlock realised. He was winning fights rapidly, but not pushing his opponents down, and the audience were murmuring, having apparently noticed this too.  

 

Jirimeja was standing up now, and speaking to her father. Who, after a moment, nodded, and suddenly soldiers were marching out and, grabbing John by the shoulders, dragging him to the pit.

 

‘What –‘ Sherlock said. ‘No – why are they –‘

 

‘He wasn’t playing properly,’ the man said disapprovingly. ‘There’s always one _noble_ one who won’t compete. They go straight to the Labyrinth.’

 

John was fighting back, but it was hopeless. As Sherlock watched, pulse racing, he was pushed forward and fell into the hole, clambering to his feet a moment later and just standing, staring upwards.

 

‘That isn’t fair,’ Sherlock said, and then felt idiotic for saying something so inane.

 

‘They’re just slaves,’ the man said. ‘Now, this is where it gets good, they get given daggers instead of sticks, and after that people go all round the palace – there are holes in the floor all over the place to watch the tributes in the maze. The princess is wonderful at thinking of _interesting_ things to send in there with them. Always a few bulls – she likes bulls – but all sorts of other things too. And she’s always coming up with new traps. It’s never dull. Wait – where are you going?’

 

Sherlock ignored him. He was already running, up round the arena and towards the other part of the palace he could see behind the royal balcony. There must be at least one other way into the Labyrinth, and he was going to find it. Specifically, he was going to get an audience with Princess Jirimeja. He couldn’t risk talking to other-him yet; their identical appearances would cause too many questions. But the Mistress of the Labyrinth, whatever that meant, would surely know its secrets. Sherlock only had to work out how to get them out of her.

 

As he approached the royal box, however, he had to draw back hurriedly: his counterpart was stepping out and walking away at great speed, looking anxious – an expression which was rather peculiar to see on a face so much like his own. Though this close, Sherlock could see that this version was far shorter than he was.

 

Sherlock changed tack. That expression was suggestive; it had possibilities. Sherlock could only remember feeling as anxious as the prince now looked once, and that might mean – yes. He turned away from the box and instead began to follow his other self, keeping at a safe distance.

 

Into the palace, and through more corridors, Sherlock walking as softly as he could, afraid that the man might turn round and see him. But he seemed far too preoccupied.

 

He had reached a door in the wall. As Sherlock watched, he opened the door and closed it behind him.

 

Sherlock waited as long as he could bear to and then opened the door. There was no sign of his counterpart, but there were stone steps leading down into the dark, and the inside door handle had a thick silver thread tied around it. When he shut the door, the thread glowed in the dark. He followed it down the steps, stumbling when he tried to step down to a step that wasn’t there and found himself instead on flat ground. The thread stretched away into the dark. When he reached and felt around him, his hands met a wall close by.

 

This, then, was the Labyrinth.

 

Then there was light again, and he turned to see the door open, and a woman walking down the stairs. ‘Pathetic,’ she said. Bejewelled dress; dark hair elaborately coiled, all just about visible in the faint light from above. Princess Jirimeja. And now that she was close up, he could see how familiar her features were. He only hoped that, standing lower down and in the shadows as he was, his resemblance to her brother was less obvious.

 

‘What is?’ Sherlock said.

 

‘My brother,’ she said. ‘He’s developed some sort of – attachment – to one of the tributes. And now he’s gone into the Labyrinth to find him. Leaving a nice silver trail to mark the safe path. There _is_ a safe path, Sherlock insisted we play fair when I set the place up. I had to do all the work though. Choosing the traps and the animals and so on – he just wouldn’t show any enthusiasm. Infuriating. But he poked his nose in long enough to say that escape had to be theoretically possible, even if in practice quite unattainable. Sherlock and I are the only ones that know it, and now he’s misusing his knowledge to rescue prisoners. And this slave he likes, he’s hardly going to agree to just come on his own, is he? We’ll have all seven of them out, and that won’t do at all. Giving the Athenians hope – encouraging them to object to the tribute – the games are the only real fun I have all year.’

 

Sherlock said nothing.

 

‘But who are _you?_ ’ Jirimeja said. ‘I followed you and my brother out here. I was fairly sure where he was going, but I couldn't understand why some oddly-dressed tourist should care.'

 

‘Just curiosity,’ Sherlock said.

 

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, now you know. The prince is an idiot, don't tell anyone. And if you’ll excuse me, I need to move this thread to a more entertaining location.’

 

‘No,’ Sherlock said.

 

‘I really wouldn’t interfere if I were you,’ she said. ‘I’m more than happy to kill you.’

 

Sherlock stepped into the light, and the princess stared at him. ‘ _Sherlock?_ ’ she said in disbelief. ‘But then who – and no, you’re too tall, but then –‘

 

She was stunned, and Sherlock could use that, but he add to act quickly. He swung his fist, and she ducked, but not in time. He might not have John’s ability in this area, but he was strong enough, and he’d undergone a great deal of research and training to ensure that he could incapacitate opponents quickly. She went down hard, collapsing onto the floor. Now he could only hope that his counterpart would return with John before she woke up, or people noticed she was missing.

 

Thankfully, he did not have too long to wait. After a while he heard footsteps, and talking, and then the thread was disappearing as someone carrying a reel stepped into view, gathering it up as he walked. As he made his way into the light from the door Sherlock saw seven others behind him, including John. Something uncoiled inside him, though he chose not to examine the feeling too closely.

 

No time to do so anyway, because his counterpart was staring at him. ‘It’s a little complicated,’ Sherlock said. ‘I’ll explain on our way up. I imagine you really can’t afford to linger in the palace for long. And I need your help.’

  
  
  
*

 

_Moriarty looks around him, frowning. A Holmes here and possibly a Watson, though the man in the arena was too far away for easy recognition and in any case will not be alive much longer. Yet, though a Watsonless universe had been something he’d hoped to find, he isn’t sure this place is much use to him. Minoan civilisation is too unfamiliar and, though remarkably advanced for its time, nevertheless far too undeveloped for Moriarty’s liking. He cannot stay here. He rises to his feet and returns to his machine, hidden in an unused storeroom Moran had found near the back of the palace. Somewhere outside, unknown to him, an identical machine in a different hiding place spews steam and vanishes. Moments later, the machine in the storeroom follows suit._


	5. SHERLOCK - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUs in this chapter: brief revisiting of previous AUs  
> Warnings for this chapter: angst, non-graphic sex

Being back in the 21st century was an enormous relief. Sherlock managed to get out of the time machine – not easy; it was a tight fit now that there were three of them in there.  Ioannes (as the tribute’s name had turned out, unsurprisingly, to be) and Prince Sherlock followed him.

 

‘Wow,’ John said, staring at the three of them. ‘Christ. Um. This is – weird.’

 

The Minoans stared at him. John, of course, wasn’t wearing a translation device, so presumably they couldn’t understand a word. ‘He’s saying this is weird,’ Sherlock told them.

 

‘It certainly is,’ said the Prince, looking around him with evident interest. ‘But fascinating.’ Ioannes smiled at him.

 

Sherlock had already outlined the situation to the Minoans to persuade them to leave. Ioannes had been extremely reluctant to abandon the other tributes, but once they were safely placed on a ship and sent off he’d finally agreed to come. He still clearly didn’t entirely understand what was going on, but appeared to be prepared to follow the prince just about anywhere – a fact that made Sherlock’s pulse momentarily erratic when he thought of it too much.

 

The prince seemed to understand quite well what was going on, and to have accepted it remarkably fast. Then again, it had taken Sherlock very little time to realise the situation himself, and it had been just as strange to him. Clearly, rapid adjustment to new information, however shocking, was part of having an extraordinary mind.

 

‘You go and collect more allies,’ John said. ‘I’ll take care of things here, see that they get settled in.’

 

Sherlock repeated this information to the Minoans. Ioannes said, ‘But we can’t understand a word he says.’

 

‘Oh, I’ll figure that out,’ Prince Sherlock said airily. ‘No trouble.’

 

‘Of course you will,’ Ioannes said, rolling his eyes. And again, that odd warmth in Sherlock’s stomach.

 

‘I’ll just be going, then,’ he said. ‘John, find them somewhere to sleep, would you?’

 

‘Of course,’ John said. ‘I was thinking of asking Mrs. Hudson if we could put some mattresses down in 221C. There’s not going to be room for an army of copies of us to stay here, that’s for sure.’

 

‘I suppose you’d better buy some mattresses, then,’ Sherlock said.

 

‘We’ll only need one,’ Ioannes said, his expression almost lascivious.

 

That, Sherlock decided, was definitely his cue to leave. There was no need to stay and listen to things that made him – uncomfortable. He had work to do.

 

*

 

The next time Sherlock got out of the machine, he found himself standing a few inches away from two women. They were standing a foot or so apart from each other, and staring at Sherlock, apparently rather alarmed by a large iron machine materialising next to them.

 

He would have known who they were, even if he hadn’t been expecting it. And that made the observation that they were flushed, their hair a little untidy, their pupils dilated and their lips swollen – disconcerting, to say the least. The images were in Sherlock’s head before he could stop them – these women kissing, up against a brick wall, hands in each other’s hair – and then Ioannes’s last comment came into Sherlock’s mind, and the images were shifting, the faces becoming different, more masculine, the eyes becoming the darker shade of the Minoans’ – and then they were changing again, skin paling, faces suddenly more achingly familiar than ever, and –

 

This had to stop. Brusquer than he’d intended, Sherlock said, ‘Get in. Quickly. I’ll explain on the way.’

 

‘I’m going to need a better explanation than that,’ Sherlock’s female counterpart said. Which was fair enough. Sherlock knew he certainly would have demanded the same. But annoying, nevertheless.

 

‘I’m from a different universe,’ Sherlock said. ‘And from the future. I’m – perhaps you can see that we’re not dissimilar in appearance or manner?’

 

‘I can,’ his counterpart said, after a pause. ‘So you’re claiming to be –‘

 

‘You, yes,’ Sherlock said. ‘It may sound impossible, but bear in mind the fact that I’ve just appeared out of nowhere. You have to admit that some readjustment of your theories about the world is required.’

 

The woman nodded. Then she glanced at her companion, who had been silent and staring all this time. ‘Joan,’ she said, slowly. ‘I – I know we have rather a lot that needs discussing. And I don’t want to drag you into anything dangerous if you’d rather not...but I can’t leave this unexplored. I have to understand.’

 

‘Of course you do,’ Joan said. She was smiling fondly. ‘And of course I’m coming.’

 

‘Come on, then,’ Sherlock said, looking away from the smile. ‘Let’s go.’

 

*

 

‘Sheridan?’ John suggested.

 

‘That’s the worst one yet,’ the female Sherlock said. ‘Ugh. I don’t see why I should have to give up my name.’

 

‘It’s going to get really confusing,’ John explained, patient as ever. ‘With so many of us around. You can’t all be called “Sherlock”.’

 

‘He could give up his name,’ she said, glowering at Sherlock.

 

‘It’s my universe,’ Sherlock said, aware he sounded petulant. ‘What about Shirley?’

 

He probably deserved the withering glare he got at that.

 

His doppelganger paced the room for a while. At last she said, ‘Sophia will do, I suppose.’

 

‘Excellent,’ Sherlock said. ‘Introduce them to the others, John. I’ll be back shortly.’

 

‘Actually, you’ll be back five minutes ago,’ John said.

 

Sherlock frowned at him. ‘Excuse me?’

 

‘You came back in the wrong order,’ John explained. ‘But you’ve already left. I mean, you from the future  - your future – has already left. Um. If you see what I mean.’

 

‘Don’t tell me things from my future,’ Sherlock warned. ‘We don’t know if that’s safe, or how easy it is to cause a paradox. Moriarty wasn’t particularly forthcoming with details – I don’t think he knows most of them himself.’

 

John sighed. ‘I don’t like this much,’ he said. ‘Are you sure I can’t do the next one?’

 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘I already won this argument,’ he reminded John.

 

‘Yes, all right,’ John said. ‘Just – be careful.’

 

*

 

This time, when Sherlock emerged from the machine, he was standing in a plain room, and two people who looked not dissimilar to himself and John were standing there. They weren’t identical, but their identities were nevertheless pretty clear.

 

They didn’t look at all surprised. ‘They’ve finally got the teleportation device up and running then, have they?’ Sherlock’s copy asked.

 

‘Not precisely,’ Sherlock said, slowly. He took a more thorough look around him. He hadn’t observed properly at first, but examining the room, he took in the number of objects that were unfamiliar to him, and then the charts and maps on the walls, marked with a key that indicated different colours represented friendly and unfriendly areas. This must be a military base. And one, by the looks of things, from some distance in the future.

 

Sherlock looked back at the two men in front of him. There was something peculiar about them – something about the textures of their skin and hair, something about the way they stood. Still, that wasn’t Sherlock’s immediate concern right now. ‘You’re badly needed, both of you,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose your base can spare you for a moment?’

 

‘You’ve picked an awful time,’ not-John said. ‘We were – about to be otherwise occupied.’ He smirked slightly. Sherlock did not flush, but it was a near thing. For God’s sake, was every other version of him in every other universe shagging John Watson? How was that fair?

 

Not-Sherlock took his companion’s hand, and began stroking the fingers softly. ‘What do you mean by badly needed?’ he said.

 

So Sherlock explained, again – it was occurring to him that he was going to get extremely bored of telling this story. At least, though, the two men seemed to believe him. Not-John said, curiously, ‘Are you an android too, then?’

 

Sherlock blinked. ‘You’re androids?’ he said. Perhaps he shouldn’t have given up bothering to read Moriarty’s notes.

 

‘I’ll take that as a no,’ John’s counterpart said. ‘But your name is Holmes?’

 

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ Sherlock said.

 

‘Ah,’ his double said. ‘We just have the one name each. Holmes and Watson.’

 

‘Where did you get those?’ Sherlock asked. ‘I’d have thought you’d just have serial numbers.’

 

‘In the factory, yes,’ his double said. ‘But once people hire androids they normally give them names. The head of this base, Captain Coretta Michaels, is fairly consistent in treating – and thinking of – androids as people. She’d have been uncomfortable calling us H011M5 and W44S07. We don’t care – names don’t mean much to us. But she was happier with human style names, so we obliged her. She chose the names – based them on some series of fiction that she likes.’

 

‘Right,’ Sherlock said. ‘Well, we’ve far too many Holmeses and Watsons around in my world already, so if you don’t mind going back to your original names, I’d be much obliged.’

 

‘I don’t see any problem with that,’ said the man who wasn’t John, and now he was squeezing the hand of the man who wasn’t Sherlock tightly, and Sherlock was beginning to wonder how much more of this he could bear.

 

Moriarty had told him and John that they were always together in every universe. And while Moriarty had managed to work out why he always encountered a version of Sherlock Holmes wherever he went, he had no answer to the question of why Holmes was always accompanied by some version of Watson. Sherlock had found that information unsettling to begin with, but facing up to its realities was proving much more difficult.

 

And so far every single set of counterparts had been together not simply in the sense of cohabiting, or even as friends or colleagues, but in a romantic and sexual sense. Moriarty hadn’t mentioned _that_. Sherlock felt some warning would have been very helpful.

 

‘Let’s go, then,’ Sherlock said, and, thankfully, the two androids let go of each other’s hands to follow him into the machine.

 

*

 

‘Here’s the third lot,’ Sherlock said.

 

John frowned. ‘You mean second.’

 

Of course. The five minute time confusion. ‘No, I’ve arrived in the wrong order,’ Sherlock said.

 

‘Ah,’ John said. ‘Right. Occupational hazard of time travel, I guess. I suppose you’d better get out of here – oh, but I needed to ask – can I borrow the translation device? I’m having trouble explaining a couple of things to Ioannes and the prince.’

 

After handing over the device – he could manage without it for one trip, surely – Sherlock entered the next set of coordinates, and found himself in a field. Moriarty’s notes for this one read: _Late Roman empire, barbarians,_ which seemed straightforward enough. Sherlock only had to make sure that he mentally braced himself for any...intimacy between the people he encountered.

 

The two people standing in front of him didn’t look much like himself and John, and yet somehow they were instantly recognisable. Sherlock was going to have to take some time to work out exactly what the resemblance was, which features his unconscious mind was picking up on.

 

For now, though – he cast his mind back to secondary school, a period of his life which he’d subjected to a number of deletion sweeps, till there were only fragments left. He couldn’t get rid of everything without damaging later memories, since there were too many subtle connections. But he’d disposed of everything he could. Latin, however, he’d hung on to bits of, because when people wanted to leave sinister, threatening messages they often seemed to quite like doing so in grammatically inaccurate Latin. Sherlock had no idea why.

 

Moriarty’s note had said _barbarians_ , so for all Sherlock knew the doubles might not even be Roman. But he tried it anyway: ‘Salve.’

 

Now what? Secondary school Latin had never taught him how to say, ‘I’m from another universe and I need you to come with me to help me defeat an army of duplicated criminal masterminds there.’ Perhaps he could work it out, but then again – maybe that wasn’t necessary. He looked at his counterpart’s face, and saw, unmistakeably, boredom. And imagined how he would have survived living in this world.

 

His double, right now, Sherlock thought, probably wouldn’t be certain whether getting into that machine would change his life or simply end it. But neither, Sherlock thought, would necessarily be altogether unattractive outcomes.

 

So he just smiled, and pointed to the machine.

 

There was a whispered discussion between the two men in a language Sherlock had never heard, and then they piled into the machine without further comment.

 

*

 

Reclaiming the translation device from John, Sherlock was able to explain things better to the newcomers, who introduced themselves as Avars – apparently their tribe – with names that sounded like more guttural versions of Holmes and Watson. Hülmces and Vantsen? Something like that. At any rate, they were different enough not to require changing.

 

These two, at least, seemed less physically affectionate than the others, which was something to be thankful for.

 

Sherlock’s feelings of gratitude, however, didn’t last long. The next set of coordinates he entered led to him standing in what seemed to be a hotel, all the furnishings in jarringly bright colours. He was in a corridor, and there were noises coming from the door nearest him. Voices that rang in his ears, familiar again.

 

Perhaps he was wrong, and they weren’t doing what it sounded like they were doing. He supposed him being wrong could happen. In theory. Gritting his teeth, he knocked.

 

A woman’s voice from inside the room, breathy but clearly audible, gasped out: ‘There’s – oh – someone’s – fuck, Sherlock – someone’s knocking.’

 

‘Don’t – fuck – don’t care,’ said a man’s voice. And irritating as being ignored was, Sherlock couldn’t really blame him. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted to stop for anything, either, in some impossible alternate universe where he somehow ended up having this.

 

Except the alternate universe wasn’t impossible, was it? He was there. And it wasn’t the only one, either. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of that, except perhaps bitter envy.

 

Anyway, that was all beside the point. The more immediate problem was that if the couple in the hotel room weren’t going to stop and open the door, Sherlock was going to have to go in there.

 

He wasn’t sure if his heart could take that. It was thudding badly enough already. But there wasn’t much choice.

 

He opened the door. There was a man lying on the bed, naked from the waist down, but wearing a corset on top. He looked like Sherlock, except that his hair cascaded down to his shoulders and looked, in Sherlock’s opinion, idiotic.

 

Sitting on top of him was a woman. She was naked, completely, and it was clear that she’d been badly injured at some point. One arm and one ear were missing, and one of her legs had two holes running clean through it and scarring everywhere. Her hair was long, and a blondish, hard-to-define colour that Sherlock knew very well.

 

Their hands were – touching each other, in a very specific way. It was only a relief that Sherlock couldn’t see the woman’s face, he thought. That would have been too much.

 

‘Might be important,’ the woman was saying. She leaned forward carefully, pressing her body to her partner’s. She removed her hand from between his legs and used it to support herself as she moved, but as soon as she was lying fully on top of him, she slipped the hand underneath his body. Sherlock tried not to think about where it was going, but the little gasp the man let out was a difficult clue to ignore.

 

Enough was enough. ‘It is important,’ he said, not bothering to keep his disapproval of the whole maddening situation out of his voice. ‘More important than – er – this.’

 

The _er_ hadn’t been intentional. He hated himself slightly.

 

Some sort of look must have passed between the two people, because Sherlock’s counterpart was helping John’s back up into a sitting position without her having said anything, as far as Sherlock could hear. Once up, she shuffled round to face him, with a slight wince of pain at the pressure this seemed to put on her leg.

 

‘How did you get in?’ she said. Sherlock didn’t answer. Her face, reddened and feminine and yet painfully recognisable, was making it hard to think. She was looking hard at his face, too, he realised, and seemed somewhat puzzled. As well she might be.

 

Then she seemed to make up her mind. ‘All right, we’re coming,’ she said.

 

Sherlock’s counterpart actually _giggled_ at this. Sherlock was slightly appalled. Was this what regular sex with Watsons did for the mind? Perhaps he was better off without it, after all.

 

If he could only avoid looking at John’s counterpart, he might actually be able to go on believing that.

 

‘Oh, don’t giggle, what are you, twelve?’ she said.

 

For some reason, it was this that pushed Sherlock over the edge. Because everything that had happened so far had happened to someone else, someone who happened to look like him. But this – John teasing him, mocking without bite, even with affection – that could happen and did happen in Sherlock’s own world. Sherlock had never ceased marvelling at it. And suddenly everything was crashing together in a way he couldn’t control, and he had to get out of here now.

 

‘Perhaps I should let you finish what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘I’ll need your full concentration for the task I require of you, and I don’t feel I have it at the moment. I’ll be outside. Next to the enormous iron steam-belching time machine. You can’t miss it.’

*

 

Outside, Sherlock leant against the machine, and tried to compose himself. It was absurd to be so affected. He had – had – to sort his mind out, or continuing this was going to be impossible.

 

After a few minutes, the couple came out of their hotel room. Sherlock’s double raised his eyebrows. ‘You weren’t kidding,’ he said.

 

Sherlock told them the by now well-practiced story, and they listened with clear fascination. They interrupted several times to ask questions, and seemed puzzled by the use of pronouns – which made it clear what Moriarty’s comment of _no sexes/no awareness of sexes_ had meant.

 

And it occurred to Sherlock that he shouldn’t underestimate Moriarty. Just because he seemed less actively engaged in trying to kill Sherlock than Jim did didn’t mean he was to be trusted. Because he hadn’t given Sherlock an exact copy of his own coordinates – that would have meant Sherlock landing in the exact same position as Moriarty, which wouldn’t have been healthy for either of them. Instead he’d written down coordinates to areas very close by. And of all the places he could have made Sherlock land, he'd chosen to drop him outside this bedroom where - this was happening.  

 

Had Moriarty known what that would do to Sherlock? Did he know what was going on in Sherlock's mind? He probably did, Sherlock thought, irritated with himself. It wasn’t as though Sherlock managed to be all that subtle.

 

Moriarty was playing with his mind, Sherlock was almost sure. And Sherlock was falling for it spectacularly.

 

When he got the latest copies back to his own world, he said: ‘John, I’ve been considering – perhaps you should get the next lot. I’m finding the time travel somewhat exhausting, I wouldn’t mind a break from it.’

 

‘Of course,’ John said, reaching out for the coordinate sheet. ‘ _Mer-people_ ,’ he read aloud from it, and raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely that can’t be right?’

 

‘After all this, I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Sherlock said. ‘But I suppose you’d better go and find out.’


	6. SHERLOCK - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AUs in this chapter: no AUs visited, but characters from _Elementary_ and loosely Ottoman-Egypt-based steampunk 'verse

The time machine vanished, and Sherlock turned his attention back to the latest set of copies. ‘What do you want to be called?’ he asked. ‘You can’t be called Sherlock and John; those are taken.’

 

The usual argument commenced, but eventually they consented to being called Sherrinford and Jack. Why those names appealed, Sherlock had no idea, but at least the issue was resolved.

 

He’d barely finished dealing with that when the time machine reappeared. The first person to emerge from it was a man in a rough woollen tunic, with a much younger version of John's face and shaggy sun-lightened hair. There were tiny particles of salt and sand clinging to it, Sherlock saw.

 

Of perhaps more note was the fact that the man was carrying in his arms a put-out looking – well, merman. Really, there was no more sensible word. It looked like Sherlock, apart from the tail. Sherlock tried not to stare, and failed.

 

‘Put me _down_ ,’ mer-Sherlock said.

 

‘Anything you say, Siger,’ John’s counterpart said, smirking – and the unfamiliar name, though unexpected, was a relief; they were going to run out of ways to rename their copies soon.

 

He deposited Siger on the floor, and stepped out of the way of the time machine so that Sherlock’s John – and no, that was a terrible way to designate him, _delete_ – could climb out.

 

‘Apparently Moriarty wasn’t kidding,’ John said. He nodded at Siger, and went on, ‘I’m told he can survive fine out of the water, but it’s not comfortable. We’d better get him a fish tank or something.’

 

‘A _fish tank_?’ Siger said, pushing himself upright. ‘No. No, I won’t allow it.’

 

‘You want to just – flop there?’ John’s double said.

 

Siger made an enraged sound, threw his arms up and fell dramatically back to the floor again. Sherlock was slightly impressed; as dramatic petulance went, it scored quite highly.

 

‘I’m taking that as assent,’ John said, and his double laughed. ‘There’s a pet shop off Tottenham Court Road, I think. I’ll go and see what we can do, shall I? I’ll organise to have some mattresses delivered while I’m out, as well. Johnny, Siger, do you need anything else?’

 

‘Johnny’ shook his head, and Siger didn’t deign to reply. John headed off, first handing back the translation device, which Sherlock had given him before he set off in the machine.

 

Sherlock looked around the now very crowded living room. Prince Sherlock, the Minoan, was talking to the Avar, Hülmces – or, talking wasn’t quite the quite word, since they obviously didn’t speak the same language, but they were managing to communicate with gestures and drawings, both looking very excited. Ioannes was sketching the Minoan palace for Sophia, who seemed fascinated, and was pointing at various details, at which Ioannes would draw a close-up sketch of those details. Joan and W44S07 were having a spirited discussion about medicine.

 

Vantsen had come to sit next to Siger, and was gazing reverently at him, not saying much, while Siger continued to argue with Johnny. Sherrinford was asking H011M5 about how he’d been designed, while Jack had somehow got hold of John’s gun cleaning kit and was tending to their own gun, sitting in their wheelchair and leaning forward over the kitchen table. Sherrinford and H011M5 were standing close by, and Sherrinford held the gun steady for Jack while they cleaned it, in a way which to Sherlock looked almost automatic, as if Sherrinford was barely even aware they were doing it.  

 

This was chaos, Sherlock thought. Were these people really going to be of any use in fighting Jim? Or was this all a colossal mistake?

 

‘You look worried,’ Jack said, from across the room. They were looking up at Sherlock now, and Sherlock went over to them, though without really knowing what he was going to say.

 

At last he said, ‘I did tell you that I brought you here to help me deal with an unknown number of versions of a psychopath who wants to kill me. After first burning the heart out of me, whatever that means. It would be slightly strange if I weren’t worried, wouldn’t it?’

 

Jack smiled. ‘Fair enough,’ they said. ‘But we’re here now, and – we’ll be of use, I think. Even if it all seems a bit mental right now. You had some reason for thinking that getting us all together was a good idea, right? And I’m inclined to agree that it was. Because I reckon we’ll spark off each other, I think you guys – the Sherlocks, I mean – will think better aided by each other, and _my_ lot...well, frankly, it’s nice to meet people who understand.’

 

Sherlock looked thoughtfully at them. ‘People where you come find you and Sherrinford’s relationship hard to understand?’ he said.

 

‘Well, Sherlock – Sherrinford, sorry – is pretty crazy,’ Jack said. ‘And our life together is – well, I expect you know, don’t you? It’s hardly typical, and hardly what anyone I know expected I’d end up doing.’

 

Sherlock hesitated, wondering whether to ask the thing he really wanted to ask. Eventually, against his better judgement, he did. ‘How did the two of you end up...uh, sexually involved?’

 

Jack smiled. ‘I’d catch Sherrinford looking at me in a way I didn’t recognise, at the oddest times. Usually, I’ve got to admit, when I was being violent in some way.’

 

Images came instantly into Sherlock’s head – John tackling the Golem, John shooting a man the night they met, John racing forward to protect Sherlock at any given opportunity – and he had to swallow.

 

‘Well, Sherrinford wouldn’t explain why was looking at me like that, and –’ Jack paused. ‘It’s weird talking about this to you,’ they said. ‘I mean, I don’t want to offend you. Maybe you’re different, and you find it easier to talk about stuff you feel strongly about – but Sherrinford doesn’t, anyway, and there’s no way’d ever have said anything. But’s not the only person who can deduce things. I figured it out in the end, maybe a bit slow by ‘sstandards, and I talked to about it – and – well, yeah.’

 

Somehow, Sherlock felt disappointed. Surely that couldn’t have been all there was to it? But then Sherrinford and Jack’s world had no genders: a heterosexual identity would presumably not be a problem likely to come into play there. Perhaps Sherlock would be better off asking one of the others. Then again, their cultures, too, were so different that mapping their experiences onto Sherlock’s world might not be very helpful either.

 

But if all these others had managed to seduce their John Watsons – and God, all Sherrinford had had to do apparently was _look_ at Jack – Sherlock, who was surely every bit as clever as they were, ought to be able to manage it, culture differences or not.

 

‘Why’s asking about how we got together?’ Sherrinford said, looking up from his conversation with H011M5 in order to glower at Sherlock. ‘Get your own.’

 

‘I have my own,’ Sherlock said indignantly.

 

Sherrinford raised their eyebrows. ‘Please,’ they said. ‘If I can’t read _you_ , of all people...’

 

‘I have got one,’ Sherlock repeated, unsure why he felt suddenly slightly distressed, why it was so necessary to insist on this point. ‘You met him. He’s just out buying a fish tank.’

 

‘You don’t _have_ in every sense of the word, though, do you?’ Sherrinford said. ‘And you’d like to, but you can’t for some reason, and all I’m telling you is that if you were thinking of trying to supplement what you have with a double from another universe who’ll sleep with you, you can look elsewhere.’

 

Sherlock considered this. Because the odd thing was that what Sherrinford was suggesting hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d certainly found himself feeling warmly towards some of these other Watsons, even experiencing attraction towards them – and how could he not, when they were who they were – but it was a shadow or echo and nothing more. He had no desire to keep one in this universe with him after all this was over, and certainly no desire to be physically close to any of them.

 

‘Wasn’t hitting on me, you idiot,’ Jack said, reaching out and ruffling Sherrinford’s hair in a way that made them put on a scowl while obviously really loving it. ‘Was just curious, right, Sherlock?’

 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said. ‘I’ve no interest in...supplementing.’

 

Sherrinford looked at him hard, then nodded. ‘Fine. Good. I just wanted to be clear.’

 

‘You know,’ Jack said, ‘If it’s true...the thing about you wanting – more than you have now, with your John. Maybe you should just talk to? I mean, Sherrinford had no idea I was interested until I did something about it. Was convinced I didn’t, in point of fact.’

 

‘I can read him perfectly,’ Sherlock said. ‘I’d know.’

 

‘That’s what I thought,’ Sherrinford said. ‘But I was...’ He stopped.

 

‘Wrong?’ Jack suggested, grinning at them. ‘You can say it, you know. The world won’t implode.’

 

‘Never,’ Sherrinford said, with dignity.

 

This whole conversation was unsettling Sherlock, and he decided that it was time to draw it to a close, at least for now. ‘We should start planning our next steps,’ he said. And then, in a louder voice: ‘Everyone? We have some discussion to do.’

 

*

 

Jim Moriarty, it transpired, was a familiar issue to some of the doubles, though not all of them. Sophia and Joan had never heard of him, and H011M5 and W44S07 only appeared to have met the Victorian Moriarty. Sherrinford and Jack, though, had had experiences much like Sherlock and John’s own, playing an elaborate game with someone who enjoyed violence for its own sake. Hülmces and Vantsen knew of a particularly dangerous Roman governor who lived in a town not far from where they were, who had sworn to wipe out all barbarians, and whose name was Iaocomus Morianus Hostis. Johnny appeared concerned, because Moriarty was the name of the wealthiest and most influential man in his village; Johnny found the idea of connecting him with crime hard to comprehend.  

 

Prince Sherlock was quiet on the subject of his sister. When Sherlock insisted that there was no doubt that Jirimeja and Jim were counterparts, the Prince did not contradict him, but shrugged, a little sadly, Sherlock thought.

 

Sherlock tried to imagine what life would have been like if Jim had been his brother. It was a bizarre concept to wrap his head around. On the one hand – surely less boredom. Prince Sherlock and Jirimeja were twins; they had never been without each other. Sherlock would have had someone around who understood.

 

And yet Sherlock wasn’t sure, nevertheless, whether he would really have liked it. Jim might, perhaps, have turned out differently under those circumstances, but if not – he would probably have been even more possessive over Sherlock than he was now. It might have become – well, perhaps even frightening, in the end. And where would John have fitted into that unit? Sherlock couldn’t imagine a space for him there, and that made the unit feel cold and hard. It would have become like a sealed trap, Sherlock thought, one which he wouldn’t have even known to try and escape from.

 

Had it been like that for Prince Sherlock, until an Athenian tribute had blasted the trap apart?

 

And Sherlock was becoming fanciful now, so he pulled his mind away from the topic of the Minoan Prince’s relationships, and moved on to the question of what they should do about the probable army of Jim Moriartys building up in this world.

 

*

 

‘How’s the brainstorming going?’ John asked, when he got back. Or at least, not immediately after he got back – first of all the delivery team he’d hired had to bring mattresses and a fish tank into 221C while the doubles all hid upstairs. But now they were all in the basement flat, sitting on mattresses – except Sherlock and John, who were standing in the middle, Jack, who was in their chair, and Siger, who had grudgingly assented to get into the fish tank, and was now floating in it, arms resting on the edge and looking slightly resentful.

 

‘If we can keep what we’ve done – bringing our doubles here – from Moriarty, we’ll have an advantage,’ Sherlock said. ‘My suggestion is that I try to draw him out, as I did at the pool –‘

 

‘- because that went so well last time,’ John said, looking sceptical already.

 

‘Sherlock explained how last time went,’ H011M5 said. ‘But this time will be different, because this time, while Sherlock keeps Jim distracted, the rest of us will take out his snipers. He’s bound to bring them again. And once we have them, we can interrogate them. They’ll be able to tell us about Moriarty’s plans, who else is in his network, significant locations he uses...’

 

‘Why would they tell us that?’ John said.

 

‘Money and threats,’ Sherlock said, succinctly. ‘I doubt many of them are all that loyal.’

 

John nodded, still not looking entirely convinced, but Sherlock could tell he was coming round. The other Watsons had been persuaded, after all – though then again, it wasn’t their Sherlock who’d be in the most immediately dangerous position.

 

And there Sherlock went tagging them with possessives again. He really had to stop that. John had never given any indication that he saw Sherlock as belonging to him.

 

‘What about the other Moriarty copies?’ John said.

 

‘Jim’s dramatic,’ Sherlock said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he has them all show up for the confrontation with him. Otherwise – well, we’ll just have to watch out for them, and be on our guard. But hopefully once we begin to get information on Jim’s network, we’ll be able to track them all down and either send them back where they belong, or, if necessary – kill them.’ He avoided looking at Prince Sherlock as he said this. Perhaps Jim wouldn’t even bring Jirimeja; she had certainly been in her own world when Sherlock had visited, and James Moriarty had taken the time machine back from Jim now. That was the trouble with time travel, though: Jim could have collected his copies earlier but appeared in their worlds later than Sherlock had done. It was impossible to know exactly who he’d recruited.

 

‘Fine,’ John said, at last. ‘I don’t like it, but it’s not as though I have a better plan. I’ll go and get the last ones from Moriarty’s list – in terms of his notes, we’ve still got _space_ and _America._ There’s also our doubles from his own world, who I think would be worth having along.’

 

‘Good,’ Sherlock said. ‘You collect them, then, and I’ll start drawing up plans for how to get Moriarty to – well, come out and play. I don’t have anything equivalent to the missile plans, or Irene’s information, but then we know that isn’t really what he wants.’

 

‘He wants _you_ ,’ John said, his tone reprimanding, anxious. ‘And we both know that, whatever approach you end up taking, you’re going to be the real bait. So be careful.’

 

Sherlock saying, ‘I will be’ wasn’t surprising; anything else would have led to an argument, which would be very inconvenient right now. What was perhaps a little surprising was that he meant it. John cared about Sherlock’s wellbeing, and that thought warmed Sherlock somewhere deep and constant. He wanted John to on caring, and he didn’t want to make that process of caring any more painful than, by its nature, it necessarily must be.

 

*

 

The next pair that John dropped off were women wearing beautifully ornate flight goggles, embroidered headscarves and what looked like mechanics’ overalls or boilersuits, made of some thick, rough material.

 

They spoke what sounded like some version of Arabic, which was a language Sherlock had little knowledge of, but John said that if the next lot were in America he probably wouldn’t need the translation device, and handed it over before climbing back into the machine.

 

‘John’s told you everything, I assume?’ Sherlock said.

 

‘Yes,’ said the taller of the two, the one whom Sherlock could somehow instantly recognise as his own counterpart. ‘I’m Safiye, and this is Jahān. John appeared on our ship and asked us to help you defeat a villain. We were – a little thrown, it has to be said.’ She grinned. ‘Jahān’s all for defeating villains, though. She talked me into it.’

 

‘You were on a ship?’ Sherlock said. He tried to read the possibilities from them: merchants, perhaps? Or noblewomen travelling to their new husbands’ homes. But neither of those explained the bizarre medieval take on what would, now, definitely be clothes meant for working with engines or mechanical devices of some kind; then again, he couldn’t really think of anything that explained that. Trying to deduce people from other universes, when the whole context for deduction was different, was, perhaps, hopeless, but Sherlock felt it was a good exercise to try.

 

‘Travelling to the moon,’ Jahān said, nodding. ‘For a scientific expedition, you know. Safiye’s the head scientist; I’m the ship’s doctor – and Safiye’s unofficial bodyguard. Though, as you can see – ‘ she gestured at her clothing – ‘we both ended up doing just about every job going. It was a small craft; we only had a crew of thirty. Everyone on the ship ended up knowing how the engines worked; we were all mechanics by a couple of weeks’ in.’

 

Sherlock managed to stop himself from saying, ‘You meant a _space_ ship?’ in a gormless fashion, but he was alarmed by how close he came. A spaceship was no more bizarre than time or inter-universe travel, but he had to admit, he hadn’t been expecting it, not from people dressed in what looked, to his unexpert eye, like clothing from the 15th or 16th century.

 

The time machine appeared again, and this time the people who got out were a man and a woman, followed by John. Sherlock thought the woman slightly resembled an actress who was in a stupid film that John was inexplicably fond of, but more than that, she resembled John – as with so many of the doubles, not in actual appearance, but in something much harder to pin down.

 

‘I’m Joan,’ she said, shaking Sherlock’s hand, and she was _American_ , which was somehow almost as much of a shock as the spaceship. Which it really shouldn’t have been, considering what Moriarty’s note had said. Sherlock really needed to get a grip.

 

John was looking at Joan in a way which Sherlock found half-annoying, half-amusing: it said _oh God I can’t fancy her when she’s me_. Sherlock’s new double – who, when he spoke, proved _not_ to be American, and who was wearing an incredibly stupid t-shirt and an inferior-looking scarf – seemed as amused and as unimpressed by this look as Sherlock did.

 

Victorian Joan affably offered to be called Joanna in order to avoid confusion with American Joan. The new Sherlock double, though, seemed extremely averse to being called anything but Sherlock.

 

‘Stop being such a – a brat,’ Sherlock said. ‘Everyone else changed their names; what makes you special?’

 

‘You haven’t,’ Other Sherlock retorted, and refused to budge no matter what anyone said. Sherlock wondered about that; about what it was that made him so much more attached to his name than the other doubles. Not that they had been _happy_ about changing, but they hadn’t minded quite so much.

 

In his head, Sherlock privately began to refer to him as Lock, because Mycroft had once called him that as a child and he’d loathed it, and he suspected that this copy might loathe it too.

 

Why this one bothered him more than the rest, he wasn’t sure. He had so far not hated the experience of meeting versions of himself as much as he’d expected, but this particular encounter was proving to be everything that he’d feared from having to meet himself. Perhaps the others had just been too different – different genders, from different times, even, in the case of Siger, a different _species_ – but the universe these latest doubles came from sounded identical to Sherlock’s own. Lock had grown up in England in the ‘70s and ‘80s, had probably gone to Oxford and been miserable there, had – Sherlock could read this more easily than anything – tried to control his mind with drugs and, humiliatingly, ended up in less control than ever.

 

Those things only made the differences that there were somehow more infuriating. Perhaps at the top of the list was the fact that Lock flirted with Safiye, had a phone which, when Sherlock snatched it to look, a whole _folder_ dedicated to pictures of naked women – possibly more pictures even than John had  on his laptop – and yet appeared to display no attraction at all to Joan. Joan _Watson_ , who, though Sherlock was no judge of female beauty, was surely very attractive even aside from the fact of who she was.

 

It was probably less irritating than all the Sherlock Holmeses and John Watsons who were actually having sex, but it somehow rankled.

 

John went off again to collect the final set of doubles. Safiye had noticed Sherlock’s laptop and was investigating it with apparent fascination; Jahān was leaning over her shoulder, smiling indulgently at her interest. Lock had disappeared up to 221B, and Sherlock was really going to have to go and find out what he was doing, because it probably wasn’t good. Joan had gone to sit down on a mattress next to Joanna, and they were smiling at each other and talking animatedly.

 

As the minutes passed Sherlock couldn’t help looking around, hearing snippets of conversation, couldn’t help reacting emotionally to the presence of so many Watsons in this space. There was Vantsen exclaiming over Jack’s gun, Joanna and Joan sharing an understanding look as they talked about caring for people who wouldn’t admit to wanting to be cared for, W44S07 inviting a curious Safiye and Sophia to investigate the texture of his hair, Johnny and Jahān wide-eyed as they communicated with sketched drawings of adventure and exploration, of discovering things and people they’d never dared hope they’d get to see, and Ioannes, having borrowed the translation device, telling Siger and Hülmces how far he’d gone to protect his people.

 

There was _John_ , absent but everywhere, protective and caring and aggressive and calm and raging and loving and determined and persuadable and damaged and healed and healing and hurting and craving danger and holding tight to stability and stepping always bravely out into the unknown, and in every way more than Sherlock would ever be able to comprehend. He never wanted to stop trying, but he didn’t mind knowing that he wouldn’t succeed. He knew John inside out, could generally tell with a glance exactly where John had been that day and where he was going to go and most of what he was thinking, and still John kept surprising him, kept on opening and opening to him in a way Sherlock knew he didn’t deserve but would accept as long as it was offered.

 

However wonderful it was having all these Watsons around, though, Sherlock still couldn't stop himself from being distracted by envy. Admittedly, Hülmces and Vantsen’s relationship appeared to be platonic, and Lock and Joan’s definitely was. Johnny was attracted to Siger, but apparently the merfolk didn’t have sex; it was a source of some tension between the two of them, as far as Sherlock could tell. As for the rest, though – Sherrinford and Jack were the worst, practically obscene, Sherrinford barely able to be away from Jack for five minutes before coming back to drape all over them. Sophia and Joanna had, Sherlock suspected, only become romantically and sexually involved recently; they seemed slightly shy with each other, but the looks they exchanged weren’t shy at all. Prince Sherlock was almost reverential with Ioannes – not obviously sexual, but from time to time kissing the top of his head, lips brushing his hair, with an expression something like awe each time he did. H011M5 and W44S07 touched each other’s hands a lot, which it transpired was like kissing for them, and Safiye and Jahān were always crossing the room to murmur in each other’s ears, stroking back strands of hair and letting fingers brush necks as they did.

 

The time machine reappeared, and Sherlock looked up with interest. This was the last pair, then. They stepped out of the machine, well-dressed and elegant and just impossibly Victorian, somehow, not that Sherlock knew much about the Victorians, but it wasn’t hard to believe that these men came from the same world as James Moriarty.

 

John followed them, looking tired but triumphant. ‘That’s the lot, then,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see Jim try to stop us all.'

 

These men – Sherlock had a vague idea that they’d expect to be called by their surnames, so they could just be Holmes and Watson – looked grimly determined. ‘I know you’re reliant on the Moriarty from our world to stop the one from yours,’ Holmes said. ‘But he isn’t to be trusted, believe me. Still, we’ll help you any way we can.’

 

Sherlock nodded. He opened up the browser on his phone, skimming thoughtfully through suggested tabs. When trying to come up with a strategy he sometimes found it helpful to feed his brain random information and see what it came up with.

 

Then he caught sight of a newspaper headline, and stopped dead.

 

He stared at it for a moment, then clicked on the article, and began to read.

 

He read the article in a few minutes, and then searched for other articles that would lead to the same conclusion as that one. After he'd read those, he looked up. He felt numb, cold, entirely unsure of what to do or say next. Had he ever misread a situation this badly? No, of course he hadn’t, the worst he’d ever risked with any previous mistake was his own life, or the lives of a few people that an uncaught killer might target. If he was right about what he’d just read – and he was sickeningly certain about it – then this was incomparably worse than anything anyone had ever previously had an opportunity to do.

 

He walked over to Ioannes and plucked the translation device from his ear, then reapplied it to himself. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, loud, and everyone turned to look at him.

 

‘I think,’ he said, not knowing how to say what needed to be said, ‘we may have miscalculated. Jim’s plan – I – his desire for destruction is greater than I thought. I think – I think we may be in a lot more trouble than we realised.’


	7. INTERLUDE: IRENE

Irene sat back in her seat and looked out of the train window, then back to her phone. The phone currently showed a file she had just managed to decrypt, sent to her by a useful acquaintance. The words in the file, now that she’d finally uncovered them, simply read: JIM MORIARTY.

 

She’d heard of him, of course. No one with so much as a toe in the criminal underworld could have avoided hearing that name whispered, and Irene, who could always get information when she wanted it, had managed to uncover a little more than a whisper. Though only a little – and that was unexpected, and fascinating.

 

There was another file on her phone, a file which had extraordinary possibilities. But those possibilities involved a particularly well-organised and powerful terrorist organisation, and that was a little outside Irene’s normal area. Dealing with them directly, she felt, might be unwise. She had put feelers out, and someone had responded with this name. Jim Moriarty.

 

She hadn’t been in London for a while. London was, lately, full of people she’d broken, and she’d wanted to avoid it, just for a bit. She didn’t allow herself to feel any regret for what she’d done to people: it would be doing them a disservice. If she was going to be ruthless with people, she at least owed them emotional honesty. She had no right to think of fragmented marriages or any of the rest of it with sorrow. She had made her choices. But that didn’t mean she had to like being in their space, feeling the city all around her ache with innumerable tiny losses.

 

Jim Moriarty was in London, though; she had it from a reliable source. All her sources were reliable. It was a matter of knowing what people liked, and, sometimes, though she preferred not to do it this way, what they didn’t.

 

The train stopped, and Irene got out. St. Pancras was teeming today, but Irene had always been able to make space for herself in a crowd without resorting to shoving. She made her way out of the station, and headed up the street and round the corner. She had a car waiting for her in a narrow side street nearby.

 

As she turned into the street there was a loud, horrible grinding noise, and a large iron machine appeared directly in front of her.

 

She stared at it.

 

A man got out. He was, she thought, in his late fifties, and had bright blue eyes, with slightly drooping lids, a deeply lined forehead, and a thick moustache. He was staring right back at her.

 

The thing to do, always, was to be mistress of the situation, however bizarre it was. She wasn’t losing her mind, she trusted it above anything, so a machine really had just materialised out of thin air, with a passenger apparently on board.

 

‘Can I help you?’ Irene said.

 

The man continued to stare. Finally he said, ‘I was so sure, last time this happened, that the sex would make all the difference. But Holmes foiled me as surely in that world as he ever foiled the Professor in ours. I wonder if I ought to look elsewhere.’

 

‘Holmes?’ Irene said.

 

The man looked at her, if possible, harder than before. ‘Are you telling me the name of Sherlock Holmes means nothing to you?’ he said.

 

 _Sherlock Holmes_. The name did, in fact, mean something to her: it was another name that people were saying a lot lately, though not in whispers. Sherlock Holmes, web detective. In the papers, solving the unsolvable, with a short friend always in the background looking at Sherlock like he was the most marvellous thing ever to come into being. Irene had been intrigued and amused.

 

‘He’s a detective, isn’t he?’ was all she said out loud.

 

‘Then you’re not – never mind. I don’t suppose you can tell me whether Sherlock Holmes has an associate?’

 

Irene slipped her hand into her pocket, and dredged up the name from the last article she’d read on the subject. ‘John Watson, I think,’ she said.

 

The man cursed. Then asked, ‘Can you tell me the best way to get to Baker Street from here?’

 

Irene gave him directions. He thanked her, then turned around to reach into the machine. When he turned around again, he was holding a large, cumbersome looking gun.

 

Another sort of man might have apologised, said _I’m sorry, but I can’t have you telling anyone about my giant iron steam-powered teleportation device or whatever it is so I’m going to have to kill you._ But this man wasn’t a criminal genius, or someone who thought himself one; he was a second-in-command, had almost certainly been a soldier. Irene knew, and admired, the type. He pulled the trigger instantly.

 

Or almost instantly. But not quite fast enough. Not fast enough, for instance, to have achieved his goal before Irene’s hand curled around the tiny pistol she kept in her pocket, and fired it at the man’s leg at the same moment as she stepped aside.

 

The man crumpled to the ground, crying out, just as he pulled the trigger of his own gun. But Irene had already moved, and the bullet embedded itself in a nearby building.

 

Irene reached down and yanked the gun out of the man’s grip. He grabbed at her, but she moved quickly again, hurrying to the car. She opened the boot and then the suitcase inside it, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

 

The man, trouser leg starting to become blood-soaked, had managed to get to his feet. Reflected in the car’s shiny surface she could see him limping agonisingly towards her, hands reaching for her neck. Impressive. She put the man’s gun on top of the car, turned round and kicked hard at his injured leg. He yelled in pain, and she slammed him back down to the ground.

 

She managed to force his hands behind his back – he was clearly stronger than her, and she would never normally have been able to do it, but by applying pressure to his wound she kept him in a state of pain sufficient to affect his ability to fight back. Then she handcuffed him, and lifted him into the boot of the car, where there was just room for him.

 

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ she told him. ‘I just want to ask you a few questions. You’ve managed to get me very curious.’

 

She shut the boot, and was about to get into the car when there was another noise just like the one before, and she turned to see an identical machine appear not far from the first one. She half expected to see the same man get out again, but the man who got out this time was older, at least in his sixties, with a high, domed forehead and a vintage suit that made Irene, who cared about clothes, briefly consumed with envy.

 

Except – she frowned at it. Caring about something, to Irene, meant knowing as much about it as possible, and that – wasn’t possible. From the style of the suit and a hundred tiny details it could not have been made at any time after 1900, almost certainly earlier. No one could make a reproduction that good. And yet it looked _new_.

 

She looked at the two machines, side by side, and an idea suggested itself to her. It was an impossible idea, but then thinking of an explanation for all this that was actually _plausible..._ the only one, in fact, was that none of this was happening. And she couldn’t accept that. She was a lucid dreamer; it had been years since she’d dreamt without being aware of it and in control. And she wasn’t mad. She saw things exactly as they were; she would not accept any explanation that contradicted that belief.

 

The man looked at her warily, then said, ‘Sherlock Holmes?’

 

Irene allowed herself a small, private smile. She was beginning to get a flicker of what might be going on here. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And you are?’

 

‘Ah, you don’t know me,’ the man said. ‘Excellent. My name is Professor James Moriarty; it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

 

‘Likewise,’ Irene said, thinking _ah, this just got even more interesting. Lovely._

And then, because she couldn’t resist: ‘I was just on my way to see a friend, Professor. Why don’t you get into my car and I can introduce you? I think you might get on.’

 

Moriarty eyed the car with puzzled wariness, and Irene had to smile again. She was right; she was almost sure of it.

 

Then he nodded, and she opened the door for him, and he got in. Then she walked round the other side to the driver’s seat, and got in too.

 

She hadn’t bargained on meeting _two_ Moriartys today, but she was pretty sure that an extra one couldn’t do any harm. This, she suspected, was going to be fun.


	8. JOHN - PART 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUs in this chapter: merpeople

John wasn’t at all sure that leaving Sherlock with a bunch of other versions of himself was a great idea. It seemed quite probable that they’d blow up the flat. John would just have to trust that his own doppelgangers would prevent that from happening.

 

Sherlock hadn’t been particularly forthcoming about the experience of time travel, so it wasn’t without trepidation that John clambered into the machine. In the event, however, there was nothing more unpleasant involved than the world spinning around him. It was disorienting and maybe slightly alarming, but he’d expected worse. When the spinning stopped, he looked out and saw a grey, deserted beach stretching away from him.

 

It was drizzling, and there was very little wind, so that the waves lapping at the shore were flat and weak. There was no one around, and no sound but the soft, muffled one of rain meeting sand. He was standing underneath a cliff, which curved round, hiding the time machine from view of the beach.

 

‘Johnny!’ yelled a woman’s voice. ‘Johnny, come back!’

 

John turned. There was a boy – about six, maybe – running across the beach, a bundle of something wrapped in his arms. A woman was chasing after him, the family resemblance too strong for her to be anyone but his mother.

 

The boy looked tired, and was clearly flagging, his mother’s legs much longer. John, hidden in the shadow of the cliff, watched as she caught up with her son, and he sank miserably to the ground.

 

‘I know it’s hard,’ the woman said, gently. ‘But we don’t have a choice.’

 

The boy sniffed, and bit his lip, clearly trying not to cry. Then he handed over the bundle, which John could now see was a baby.

 

And the boy – could the boy be him? But surely Moriarty would have said something if he and Sherlock were children at the time and place he’d visited. It seemed fairly significant.

 

‘We can’t afford to feed her,’ the boy’s mother was saying. ‘We have to leave her for them, Johnny, there’s no other way.’

 

‘And you promise the merfolk will take her?’ the boy said. ‘And look after her?’

 

‘I promise,’ his mother said. ‘She’ll grow up under the sea and become a mermaid.’

 

John watched as they placed the baby against a rock, and then turned and walked away, the boy looking back with tears running down his cheeks, and the baby starting to cry loudly.

 

John shook his head. This was horrible, and it wasn’t any use. He picked up the list of coordinates to see where to go next. Then the coordinates he’d followed to get here caught his eye. While the coordinates for place and universe on the sheet were the same as those he’d entered, the ones for time differed by a fraction. He’d entered them wrong – which explained the child; John must have arrived slightly too early.

 

He got back into the machine, and entered the correct coordinates.

 

*

 

Bonepoint was named for the sound the wind made through its cave network, like rattling bones. It was named for the carnivorous seabirds the size of horses that circled it all night and left the remains of their kills on the cliffs in the morning. It was named for the bright white stone of those cliffs. It was named for the carcasses of ships that had foundered on its rocks. It was named for the songs sung by the merfolk at night, which told of the glory which human children given to them might have if they pleased their new people. It was named for the skeletons of the children who did not please their new people, left out on the beach and licked to gleaming.

 

There were endless stories, but the only people who had actually been there were the merchant council, since they were the only people who were allowed to see the merfolk. And they never talked about the place, nor about the merfolk themselves.

 

The exception to this rule was the head of the council, Sir Moriarty, who gave regular speeches in the village square updating the villagers on the current state of relations between Sandyhead and the merfolk, and revealed what he had learned of merfolk nature. Merfolk, he said, respected wealth and power, and in consequence wouldn’t harm the merchants, but they would be very dangerous for anyone else who came into contact with them. They were a violent people, and ruthless with those they deemed weak. And the way they judged strength and weakness was by the capacity to understand value. Which wasn’t to say that merchants hadn’t best also know their way around the sword, but being able to fight wasn’t enough by itself. The merfolk had strange powers, and could overwhelm even the greatest swordsman.

 

Sir Moriarty, however, had once been a travelling knight, and was well able to defend both himself and his council. Johnny had applied for it four times, but been turned down each time. Hardly surprising: though a reasonable fighter, he had no training, and he was hopeless at buying and selling. He had known that each time he applied, but hadn’t been able to resist trying again and again. Merchants got to travel, to see strange places and creatures, to have adventures. They got to go to Bonepoint and meet with the merfolk.

 

Johnny’s life, in contrast, was very simple: each day he got up at dawn and went out on his fishing boat, staying out till he had caught enough to feed him and his mother and pass the rest on to the council in exchange for the agreed price. The merchants would then sell the fish on. Not to the merfolk, of course, but to the hill villages. The only day that was different was Friday. On Fridays, before he went for his boat, he would first go to the beach where they’d once left a baby, and draw a bone in the sand for her. _Let her be safe_ , he would say to the sea. _Let her have pleased them, let them have raised her and loved her, let her have thrived down there. Please._

Today was a Friday. It was also the anniversary of the day they had left her. Johnny had woken up with wet eyes and not known why for several minutes.

 

Because it was an anniversary, he had brought a bunch of small white flowers to lay over the bone he drew. The beach was deserted; everyone else would be in the bay getting out their boats, not out here where it was so exposed, where the wind roared against the cliffs and sent the sand whipping through the air and worrying at any human face unwise enough to show itself.

 

Johnny looked out to sea, as he always did, and tried to imagine his sister beneath it. She would be twelve by now, and he pictured her smiling, then giggling, and blowing bubbles with her gills. Playing with other merchildren. Then, all of a sudden, he had to blink. There was someone out there. A figure making its way through the rough waters towards him. But who on earth would be out swimming here, at this time of day, with the winds like this?

 

He kissed his fingers, then touched them to the bone, before standing up and making his way down to the edge of the beach. The swimmer was a man, he now saw, deathly pale but with night-black hair. Johnny had never seen him in his life before. He must be from some other village further along the coast, and had perhaps lost his boat and been swept along to here.

 

‘You’d better come ashore,’ Johnny called. ‘It’s not safe.’ Still some yards away, the man froze and looked directly at him. He had a peculiarly luminous gaze.

 

Then he turned, and began swimming out to sea.

 

Johnny cursed. Was the man an idiot? The weather was only getting worse, and no one would be able to survive out there for long. He hesitated a moment, then hurriedly yanked off his tunic and breeches and tossed them aside, before running into the water.

 

He struck out fast, making straight for the man, who, swimming away from Johnny with his head underwater, didn’t seem to have seen him. Johnny swam harder, raising his head to check where he was going and to breathe, and marvelled at how long the stranger appeared to have been going without doing either.

 

‘Hey,’ Johnny said, yelling to be heard over the wind, when he finally caught up with the stranger. The stranger kept swimming, perhaps unable to hear Johnny under the water, so Johnny grabbed his arm. The stranger flailed for a moment, then resurfaced, and spun to face Johnny, looking furious.

 

‘Let me go,’ he said. His voice was deep and there was something rich about it, something that made Johnny want it to absorb him.

 

‘Listen, you’re not from Sandyhead,’ Johnny said. ‘The sea’s rough off this beach, and the wind’s only picking up. You’ll get tired soon, too – I know you think you can get home this way, but you really can’t. Come back to the beach and travel by land, or go out later when you’ve got some energy back and it’s calmer.’

 

‘I don’t need your help,’ the man said. ‘Leave me alone.’ And he turned away again, apparently intending to swim off.

 

Johnny stared. What was wrong with the man? Sighing, he swam forward after him, and locked his arms around his waist. The man thrashed and yelled, but John swam back towards the shore, dragging him.

 

It got rapidly more difficult, though. The man was still struggling. Not kicking, which was what the last person John had saved from drowning had done constantly, but hitting and squirming. The wind was picking up, too, the waves beginning to crash over Johnny’s head. He struggled to stay above the water, but the man was heavy, and still fighting him.

 

Johnny held his breath as long as he could. He swam in what he hoped was still the right direction, dragging the man. He was almost there now, he must be. He could go without surfacing that much longer. He kicked desperately, eyes shut against the burning salt. _Just a few more yards_ , he thought. _A few more_ – but his head was whirling, his limbs beginning to disobey him. _A little bit further – just a little, please –_

*

 

Johnny opened his eyes, and saw a face looming above his. For a moment, he had no idea who it was or what was happening, and then he remembered the mad stranger.

 

‘You bloody idiot,’ he said, trying to sit up and immediately falling back down again. ‘Why didn’t you listen to me? You could have got us both killed.’

 

‘I couldn’t know you were going to swim out after me,’ the man said, sounding slightly sulky. ‘What kind of man risks his life to save someone he doesn’t even know?’

 

‘I couldn’t just let you swim off and die, could I?’ Johnny said.

 

‘From what I know of humans, my belief is that most of you would have.’

 

_Humans?_

Johnny pushed himself up again, managing to hold the position this time, and looked down the length of the man’s body.

 

‘Oh,’ he said, faintly. The man’s torso ended in a tail, which was stretched out on the sand, gleaming silver in the early morning sunlight.

 

‘I was really never in any danger of drowning,’ the merman said, looking slightly amused. ‘Quite a hero complex you’ve got there.’

 

The term _hero complex_ wasn’t familiar to Johnny, but it was obvious enough what it meant. ‘Hm,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘I passed out, right? When engaged in my ill-advised hero-complex-inspired attempt to rescue you. And yet somehow I’m alive on this beach rather than dead under the sea. Funny that.’

 

‘I could hardly just leave you,’ the man said.

 

‘Of course you could,’ Johnny said. ‘Or you could have taken me away to the sea kingdom and turned me into a merman.’

 

‘It isn’t a sea-kingdom,’ the man said. ‘We have a technocracy, not a monarchy. And I couldn’t have taken you. We only take children, and they have to be freely given. It’s one of the conditions of peace between our species.’

 

Johnny’s heart twisted at that. He wanted to ask: _do you have her? Is she safe?_ But he didn’t quite dare. He didn’t know if he could bear getting the wrong answer.

 

But the man was watching him with a strangely penetrating gaze. ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘You’re a fisherman. Mother, no father. You’ve applied for the merchants’ council at least three times – no, four – and been turned down. And you lost a sibling, didn’t you? A baby.’

 

Johnny stared. ‘I knew you had magic, but –‘

 

‘Not magic,’ the man said, looking slightly indignant. ‘Deduction. And our “magic” only seems that way to you because we have technology you haven’t. The reverse is true as well: the younger ones among us sometimes call your horses and cattle mythical beasts.’

 

‘My sister,’ Johnny started, but the words stuck in his throat.

 

‘It was – eleven years ago?’ the man said.

 

‘Twelve,’ Johnny said. ‘Twelve years ago to the day.’

 

‘That’s easy,’ the man said. ‘We only got one child in March that year. A fair-haired baby, less than a month old.’

 

‘Did she please you?’ Johnny said, looking away.

 

‘I don’t know what stories you’ve heard,’ the man said, frowning. ‘We don’t make babies sit species entrance exams, you know. She’s alive and well.’

 

Johnny let out a very small gasp, then stifled it in embarrassment, and instead threw his arms around the merman, who froze, looking astonished.

 

‘Thank you,’ Johnny said, quietly.

 

‘I had nothing to do with it,’ the man said, waving an arm. He used his other arm to push his hair back, and Johnny saw the gills it had hidden before. ‘My brother oversees all that sort of thing. I was only a child myself when the girl arrived.’

 

Johnny sat back. ‘How did you work all that out?’ he asked. ‘All that stuff you knew about me. That was amazing.’

 

The man’s eyes brightened. ‘Do you really think so?’ he said.

 

‘Of course it was,’ Johnny said. ‘Are all the merfolk like you?’

 

The brightness faded a little. ‘No, they aren’t,’ the man said. He paused, looked considering, and added, ‘And I know all humans aren’t like you, because I’ve met your merchants’ council.’

 

‘They’re the important ones,’ Johnny agreed. ‘I’m just ordinary.’ It occurred to him that the fact that he was ordinary, not wealthy or powerful or skilled at bartering, meant he ought to be afraid. But the merman had saved his life, and appeared to have no interest in harming him. Perhaps he’d misunderstood Sir Moriarty’s speeches, or perhaps this merman was just different.

 

‘I don’t think you are,’ the merman said, that gaze still fixed on John’s face. ‘I go by Siger, when I talk to humans. What do they call you?’

 

‘Johnny,’ Johnny said, and took Siger’s hand. He meant to shake it, but the man didn’t lift his arm, so what happened instead was that they sat there for a moment, feeling the wind whip against their faces and holding hands.

 

Something sparked, hard and sharp, under Johnny’s skin. A feeling of danger, perhaps, or of want, or something else entirely, something new. He wasn’t quite sure. But he thought that if he went on holding Siger’s hand, he might find out, and suddenly finding out seemed very important indeed.

 

*

 

The machine appeared at the time and place set by the coordinates, and John got out.

 

At first glance, not much had changed. The beach was empty again, and the only real difference was the weather. The rain was pouring now, and the wind was rushing in from what felt like everywhere, stirring up the waves and beating at John’s face. John also noticed a large square dent in the sand, and thought that Moriarty’s machine had probably just vanished.

 

He took a step forward against the wind, and winced. He could barely see with the rain driving into his face, but as he looked towards the ocean, he realised that the beach wasn’t completely deserted after all. There was a figure dimly visible through the rain.

 

As John approached, he heard his own voice emerge from the figure.

 

‘You’re being unreasonable. My mother’s really unwell, Siger, you can’t expect me to leave her.’

 

‘You’re suggesting I leave my brother,’ came another voice, one just as familiar. John squinted through the rain, but there seemed to be no one there. Then he saw: a figure half in, half out of the water. Other John – or ‘Johnny’, as his mother had called him – was bending down slightly to talk to the figure. The figure who, with that voice could only be Sherlock, though his name here appeared to be Siger.

 

‘You hate your brother,’ Johnny said. John smiled: apparently some things remained constant between universes.

 

‘Well, then you’re asking me to leave everything I know, my entire life,’ Siger said. ‘And in any case, it’s impossible. The technology exists to turn humans into merfolk, but not the other way about.’

 

‘I can’t leave my mother,’ Johnny said. ‘And –‘ He hesitated, and, when he spoke again, sounded slightly awkward. ‘If we were – I want –‘

 

‘Is that all you humans think about?’ came Siger’s voice, dripping with contempt. ‘You’d rather I change than you because then you can fuck me?’

 

John jumped. He hadn’t seen that coming. His other self wanted – he felt himself growing slightly warm, and looked down at the sand.

 

‘Not _all_ ,’ Johnny said. ‘But it’s important to me, yes. I don’t know if I can – just give it all up. Not just that, but everything.’

 

‘But you think I should.’

 

‘No!’ Johnny said, and he sounded stretched to breaking point. ‘Of course not. I don’t think either of us should have to give up everything they are and everything they know for the other. That’s not – no one should have to do that. But I hate that I can only see you for a few minutes at a time, that I have to creep out after dark to do it.’

 

‘I don’t like it either,’ Siger said, and John saw a long white arm appear out of the water and grasp at Johnny’s hand. ‘But the human world holds no appeal for me other than you. And while, believe me, that is a very great appeal, I don’t know if – I might come to resent you, and I –‘

 

‘I know,’ Johnny said, and he knelt down to lean his head against Siger’s shoulder. ‘I know.’

 

John couldn’t listen to any more of this, knew he shouldn’t have listened to this much, so he coughed, loudly, and the two figures jumped apart, looking frantically about them. John stepped out of the rain, and they stared at him.

 

‘You – _what?_ ’ Johnny said. He glanced at Siger. ‘Is this – is this a merfolk thing? Can you – make copies of people?’

 

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Siger said. ‘I have no more idea who this is than you do.’

 

‘I’m from another universe,’ John said, because he might as well cut to the chase; there was no way of saying that that didn’t sound insane.

 

Siger seemed to be assessing this, looking John up and down. Eventually he appeared to accept this, perhaps because it wasn’t as though there was any alternative reason that made more sense. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

 

John took a breath. ‘I need your help,’ he said.


	9. Character list

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a list in my notes for this fic of all the Holmes and Watson doubles, the names they get referred to by in the BBC Sherlock universe and a brief description of the universe they came from. It occurred to me that sharing this list might be helpful, as I imagine it may be slightly difficult keeping track of everyone.
> 
> (Actually what I really want is little illustrations of them all to accompany the list, but sadly I can't draw, so you just get words.)

Prince Sherlock and Ioannes [Minoans]  
Sophia and Joanna [Victorian women]  
H011M5 and W44S07 [Androids]  
Hülmces and Vantsen [Avars/fall of the Roman Empire]  
Sherrinford and Jack [Genderless world]  
Siger and Johnny [Merpeople/medievalish]  
Holmes and Watson [Canon]  
Lock and Joan [Elementary]  
Sherlock and John [BBC]  
Safiye and Jahān [Egyptian spaceship]


End file.
